


we leave nothing but our thoughts

by peppypear



Category: Inception (2010), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Action & Romance, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Angst and Humor, Civil War Team Captain America, Everyone Needs A Hug, F/M, Fake Relationship sort of, Hurt Steve Rogers, Hurt Tony Stark, Hurt/Comfort, Identity Porn, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Misunderstandings, No character bashing in this fic, Protective Steve Rogers, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Steve's Depression Beard of Sadness, Suicide Attempt, Teamwork, The Power Of Love, The power of friendship, This was supposed to be a fun 25k romp but it got out of control D:, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, Whump, Winterwidow if you squint but it's not really the focus of this fic, [crimson peak voice] the shade is a metaphor for the past/guilt, also Samsteve and Stevetasha brotps because I love them brotps
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-24
Updated: 2018-05-11
Packaged: 2019-04-07 08:38:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 29,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14077086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peppypear/pseuds/peppypear
Summary: Inception AU - Steve Rogers is the best Extractor working in dream infiltration. He may be facing his toughest mission yet when King T'Challa hires him to perform inception on Tony Stark so he'll shut down the weapons conglomerate, Stark industries.But Steve's demons have taken on a life of their own, throwing everything into disarray, especially when the man he's targeting turns out to be nothing like he expected.Chapter 5 - Steve and Tony have to find a way to work together.--A/N: No IW spoilers.





	1. Chapter 1

T’Challa was the only one who realised that ULTRON was the beginning of the end.

He’d always had good instincts, and his father had taught him well; how to read the swirls and eddies of power like the signs before a storm.

In that darkened ballroom, packed tight with world leaders and business tycoons, T’Challa could sense the beginnings of a storm like no other; ULTRON was far too powerful to ever be used safely. He knew with a lightning certainty that the unnatural - evil, there was no other word for it - technology would lead the world to its doom. He knew it beyond a doubt.

Stark had spent the last half hour on stage talking up himself, before introducing his latest invention in his usual cocky manner. He described a terrifyingly powerful artificial intelligence with a flippancy that was perhaps even more terrifying. With every feature Stark listed, T’Challa’s dread had grown.

So much power, with none of the accountability. The monstrous string of code would play judge, jury, and executioner to all. 

“...ULTRON will be a suit of armor around the world.” Stark ended his presentation with a grin, jauntily accepting the room’s wild applause as his due.

T’Challa quickly took his leave, slipping away from the cheering masses. If there was to be any chance of averting that terrible future, he had to move fast.

Tony Stark had to be stopped.

\--

“Ever since you went to Stark’s gathering, you've been on edge,” Nakia said. “What’s on your mind?”

T’Challa gazed out the hotel window at the New York skyline, resisting the urge to pace. Stark’s tower stood out from the rest the skyscrapers, glinting in the setting autumn sun. The huge ugly building was visible throughout the city no matter where you were. The arrogant bastard probably planned that way. “Stark’s artificial intelligence is too dangerous to be allowed to exist. It has to be taken down.”

“How soon?” 

 “The prototype he showed at the demonstration was nearly complete. ULTRON could launch as early as the next quarter.” The thought of that monstrous technology unleashed on the world made him feel sick.

“Is that so?” Business-like as ever, Nakia began running through a list of solutions. “We can settle this the corporate way; absorb his company into WDG and shut the project down internally.”

"They’ve resisted every attempt we’ve made at buying them out. Stark’s a futurist, he doesn’t care about money,” T'Challa shut the curtains to block out the sight of Stark’s tower. “He’s only interested in his inventions, never pausing to consider how they might affect the world.”

Nakia sat on the edge of the bed, watching him pensively. “If the situation is already that dire, perhaps a more permanent course of action…?” Her words trailed off but he knew what he knew what she was implying.

"Out of the question.” T’Challa shook his head firmly. “I will not have our entry into the wider world be tainted by an act of violence - We don't assassinate civilians for agendas, no matter how noble the cause.”

He sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose tiredly. “What kind of people would we be if we resorted to such measures?”

“Your father didn't always think that way.” Nakia said softly.

“I'm trying to be a better ruler than he was.” T'Challa touched the silvery ancestral ring he wore on a chain around his neck. The ring’s face was cool, worn smooth by generations of kings before him. “Which is why we can't just sit by as Stark releases ULTRON on the world.”

"There is another way we could dissuade him,” Nakia paused for a moment, carefully considering her next words. “Dream infiltration."

 “No.”

“There is no other way.” Nakia argued. “Any other move and we risk showing our hand.”

"It's a despicable weapon used by criminals and greedy businessmen.”

“Or a useful tool we can use against a powerful enemy. As you said, we are running out of time,” Nakia said. “This way there need not be any blood spilt.”

“It's not always bloodless,” T’Challa whispered. A memory rose to the fore of his mind. “We learned that the hard way.”

 Nakia cast her eyes down and T’Challa knew they were both thinking of the same thing - N’Jadaka had changed so suddenly; the rage-filled murderer who called himself Erik was nothing like the nerdy cousin he'd grown up with. The poisonous idea had torn him apart from the inside, corrupting his mind and wreaking destruction on centuries of progress.

Their whole nation, brought to its knees by an idea. They had come so close to losing everything.

T’Challa shook himself out of his reverie. “Suppose we chose to pursue this. How would we start?”

“This situation is fundamentally different; we're trying to discourage Stark from a course of action, not radicalize him.” Nakia pressed on. “I can get a group of our best operatives to start researching..."

"No, if we're going to tamper with this man's mind it should be through people from his own country." T’Challa said, joining her on the bed. "Besides, there’s no way I’d feel comfortable with Shuri running around inside a mind like Stark’s."

Nakia smiled. "You don’t think Shuri could handle a few projections?”

“I know there's little she can't handle, especially under your tutelage. I’m thinking of my own stress levels.” T’Challa muttered ruefully.

Nakia laughed and leaned against his shoulder and T'Challa instinctively put his arm around her, drawing her closer. It felt nice, it had been too long since she had laughed like that and it curled a warmth in the pit of his stomach.

"There's a Forger I'm acquainted with. Russian. She’s very capable, we’ve worked together a few times," she paused, catching T’Challa's disapproving glance. "I was there purely as a witness, and she handled the whole interrogation very professionally. If we are building a team, she’d be the best person to start with."

"Very well.” He leaned down to press a kiss against her cheek. “As always, I trust your judgement."

Nakia smiled and lifted one hand to cup the side of T’Challa’s face. He wrapped a hand around her fingers, turning his head to kiss her palm.

“I won't let you down, my king.”

\--

Steve’s knuckles were still tingling as he and Sam left the Hammer Industries complex. He always felt grimy after a meeting with Justin Hammer. The man was as slimy as a slug and just as spineless.

It was supposed to be a simple job: extract technical plans from the CEO of Hammer’s competitor. Standard bit of corporate espionage. Steve and Sam had spent the last month and a half planning the op to ensure it went off without a hitch, just like they’d done countless times before.

Hiring Vanko had torpedoed the whole thing.

With Steve as the Extractor of their two-man team and Sam running point, they’d had to hire freelance Architects every time they took a job. Vanko...as it turned out, had been deliberately planted by Hammer. The moment Steve cracked the safe, Vanko had stolen the documents out of his hands and run straight to Hammer. The smarmy little man was now refusing to pay up, even having to the gall to claim ignorance of the whole matter.

Steve was not a violent man, but in that moment he’d been pissed enough to contemplate wringing the idiotic man by the neck. Still, it’d bought him some small satisfaction to leave a huge hole in the wall of Hammer’s new conference room, if only for the dumbfounded look on Hammer’s weaselly face.

Now he and Sam were back to square one, only with bruised knuckles and a whole lot of wasted time.

“Tough break, huh?” A red-haired woman was waiting for them on the street outside the complex, framed so dramatically against the falling autumn leaves that Steve suspected she’d planned it. "You boys look like you took a bite out of a mud-filled blini, as my babushka used to say.”

“Hey, Natasha,” Sam wrapped an arm around her in greeting. “Is that one of your ‘authentic’ Russian phrases? Cause we caught on to your bullshitting years ago.”

“How else would I keep you on your toes?” Natasha stepped over to hug Steve as well. “I heard you had some trouble with Hammer.”

“Good news travels fast, I see.” Steve shoved his hands into the pockets of his brown jacket. The leather was worn butter smooth from years of wear, just enough to keep out the bite in the air.

“We should've known a piece of shit like Hammer was gonna screw us over.” Sam said with a grimace (“Language,” said Steve). “If he spent on actual R&D instead of stealing from his competitors, his company might not be in the shitter in the first place.”

“If the world were less scummy, you boys would be out of a job.” Natasha fell into step beside them.

Steve gave a short bark of laughter “We're already out of a job. Unless you know anyone who's hiring.”

“As a matter of fact, I do. Come along, you’re going to want to hear this,” Natasha jerked her chin towards her shiny black sedan. “Remember that month I told you guys I was going to Venice for a holiday? Guess where I went.”

“Where did you go that was Not-Venice?” Steve asked as Natasha drove them uptown.

“Busan, Korea. I interrogated a black market arms dealer for a Wakandan client. I know, I have an interesting life,” Nat flashed them a smile through the rearview mirror. “She contacted me recently, asking me to put together a team for her. Naturally, I gave a plug for you guys."

 "Wakanda, huh? Do you know anything about the job?" Steve asked. The small African nation had abandoned its isolationist position just a few years ago, but was already one of the main players in medical research. Their first move on the international stage had caused a stir - the Wakanda Design Group introduced a technology allowing amputees regrow lost limbs - and many suspected that that was just the tip of the iceberg concerning the full range of their expertise.

For all their contributions, Wakanda was still a mystery.

Natasha shook her head “I know about as much as you do. I’m just here to collect you two so we can all meet her boss."

“Terrific.”

\--

Nakia, Natasha’s contact, was a slender woman garbed elegantly in Wakandan fashion. Her hair was styled in knots, the tips dyed a trendy shade of maroon. She met them in the lobby of a luxury hotel, the kind of place Steve might have designed in another life.

Like Natasha, Nakia remained mysteriously tight-lipped about the whole situation, making only small talk with them.

Finally, Steve lost patience and asked her bluntly. “Why bring us here and not even tell us why?”

She regarded him coolly. “This is a test.”

“Of what?”

“To see how much of a threat you are. You've been assessed from the moment you drove here.” Nakia murmured something into her comm, and every single occupant of the crowded lobby - tourists and hotel staff - instantly stopped what they were doing and vacated the area. She rose to her feet, gesturing them to follow her to the elevator. “You’ve just been cleared. I'll bring you to him now.”

“That's quite the entourage,” Sam commented as they rode the elevator up. “Who exactly do you work for?”

“The king of Wakanda.”

Steve cast a look at Natasha, who shrugged. "Well, how are we supposed to behave around a king?"

"Address him as your highness." Nakia cracked a smile at him. "Don’t worry, we don’t insist on all the formalities. Just treat this like you would any business meeting."

Steve looked down at the plaster dust on his knuckles and tried to discreetly wipe it off on his jeans. It probably wouldn’t help their case to mention how his previous business meeting had ended with him putting a hole through Justin Hammer’s office.

The elevator doors opened to a luxurious suite, lavishly decorated with with Wakandan art and textiles. Nakia brought them to a meeting room where her king was seated at the table.

T’Challa was younger than Steve had guessed; the young king was handsome-featured, with close cropped hair and a neat beard. He was wearing a long black tunic with silver detailing at the collar and cuffs. His dark eyes, large and thoughtful, met Steve’s with a commanding gaze. His chair was flanked by two female bodyguards, both attired in red body armour and carrying formidable-looking spears.

“Steve Rogers. Sam Wilson. Natasha Romanoff. Nakia tells me you are the best so I'll cut right to the chase.” T’Challa said briskly. "Inception. I’m told you can do it."

The word hung in the suddenly tense air. Steve could practically hear the concerned looks Sam and Nat were exchanging behind him.

“It’s impossible,” said Sam, breaking the silence. “You'd have an easier time growing trees on the moon.”

“If you can remove a thought from someone's head, surely one can be planted there?”

“It's not that simple,” Sam shook his head. “True inspiration is impossible to create. Besides, there are too many variables at play - you never know what kind of spin a subconscious will put on the idea. The outcome is never a sure thing.”

“As experts, wouldn’t you be able to keep these variables under control?” T’Challa commented, steepling his fingers on the table. “Unless you admit this task is beyond your ability.”

“All I’m saying is- ” Sam began heatedly.

"It’s not impossible." Steve kept his face stoic as he looked T’Challa directly in the eye. "But before I answer anything else, I'd like to know why you came to us. With all the resources you have, why not take care of the job yourselves?"

T’Challa’s face had turned stern, closed off. "My reasons are my own. And unless it's your policy to interrogate your clients so, I'll be the one conducting this interview."

“Let's hear him out, at least.” Trying to diffuse the tension in the room, Natasha stepped in. "Can you tell us more about the job, your highness?"

Nodding curtly, T’Challa pressed the buttons on his wrist comm. A hologram appeared at the centre of the table, playing a video recording of a well-dressed man. The man looked to be in his forties, handsome, with liquid brown eyes above a meticulously groomed goatee. Even as an image his entire aura radiated arrogance as he showboated for an audience at some type of red carpet event.

Another rich asshole, thought Steve.

"Stark Industries, the largest weapons development company in the world. It's currently run by the founder’s son, Tony.” T’Challa said. “I want you to perform inception on him so that he’ll shut down the company."

Sam nodded. “We’ll need some time to scope out…”

T'Challa interrupted Sam. "This has to happen soon. Within the next two months."

Sam gaped at him. "You’re kidding, right? That's barely enough time for a regular infiltration, let alone an inception. Just the research alone would take-"

"I know this is rather sudden, which is why I’m prepared to offer an advance. You'll find that it’s a more than generous." T’Challa gestured to one of his bodyguards, who slid over a check for a sum of money so outrageous that even Natasha raised an eyebrow. “And the other half upon successful completion.”

Sam eyed the money uneasily. “Steve, we should walk away from this.”

Steve considered the money. It definitely was generous, enough to cover their problems for a decent amount of time. But…

T’Challa hadn't taken his gaze off Steve, following his every move with razor-sharp focus. "But money doesn't buy everything, does it, Captain Rogers?”

Steve’s jaw clenched at the mention of his old rank. “It's one thing to steal an idea from someone's mind, but to plant one there?” He gestured at the video of Stark. “You don't know what the inception could do to this man, how it could change everything about him as a person. Whatever idea we plant could grow to define who he is. You're asking me essentially to...to...”

To brainwash. He couldn’t say the words. Memories flashed before his eyes, of falling, shattered glass, and too much blood. No.

“Steve…” Nat began as Sam shot him a look of concern. Steve abruptly stood up.

“Find someone else to do this. I’m out.” Not caring how rude it might look, Steve turned his back on the king to leave.

T’Challa raised his voice slightly to reach Steve’s ears. “It’s strange to me that a man who steals for a living would so suddenly develop a conscience.”

“You could say that.” Steve paused at the doorway. “But there are some lines I won't cross.” Not anymore.

T'Challa looked to Nakia, who nodded. “How would you like to have your friend back? Five years is a long time to be in a coma.”

Steve freezes.

"I've learned a lot about you, Captain. Following your honorable discharge, you became one of the best architects in the business. You and your team were very well-regarded in the underground network of dream infiltration. Until five years ago, that is. Your team fell apart and you abandoned designing completely.” T’Challa leaned forward slightly in his seat, gaze fixed on Steve intently. “You must have had strong reason for that decision."

Steve turned around slowly to face the king. His hand was clenched on the door jamb so hard it was a hair away from splintering.

"What happened to James Barnes was tragic. And I know that you’d do anything to..."

Steve's grip on the jamb tightened so fast that it crunched a deep gouge into the wood. The two bodyguards tensed into fighting stances but T’Challa didn't even bat an eye.

"You're right, my country has the best medical technicians in the world. I will put all of our resources at your disposal that your friend may be cured.” T’Challa inclined his head slightly. “You have my word.”

“You’re offering a lot,” Steve said slowly. “What’s the catch?” Because there had to be - nothing had gone right in years.

But T'Challa shook his head.

“My offer has no hidden strings. The only condition is that you succeed.” In one smooth motion, T’Challa rose to his feet, striding over to Steve with the air of a man who knows he's won. “The complete dissolution of the weapons company, Stark Industries. I don't care how you do it or who you choose - I want it gone. These are my terms.”

There was a long silence. Sam remained frowning, while Natasha’s eyes filled with fierce determination.

Steve gazed at T'Challa skeptically. Sam was right, he should walk away from this deal - it was foolishly dangerous, a reminder of his greatest failure - but for the first time in years, Steve felt an awful, desperate hope bloom in his chest.

Steve nodded. “Agreed.” He extended his hand to T'Challa, who shook it as if he conducted clandestine business deals every day.

"It’s settled then," T’Challa said. "Assemble your team, Captain Rogers, and choose your people wisely."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I came up with this idea in 2016 and made a whole bunch of gifsets on tumblr, hoping someone would write the fic for me. After watching Black Panther I felt so inspired that I decided to write it myself! This is the first fanfic I've written since I was 14 years old xD
> 
> I changed a few things to try and avoid doing a complete copypasta of the film.
> 
> Title is taken from "Afterlife" by Illenium
> 
> I'm on [tumblr](http://peppypear.tumblr.com/)


	2. Chapter 2

Steve splashed water on his face in Sam’s bathroom. T’Challa’s words were still running through his head. The king's promise both intrigued and unsettled him. He’d been searching for a cure for so long, but now… he wondered if the price was too high.

_I can’t do this again. It’s not right._

Inception. The word opened up a pit of dread in his stomach. Sam’s initial assessment was right: this job was much too risky. Too many things that could go wrong in a mission as complicated as this. And that was assuming T’Challa would and even _could_ hold up his end of the deal. Sure, the king seemed sincere on the surface, but looks could be deceiving - it wouldn't have been the first time Steve’s team had gotten screwed over by a slippery customer.

The cynical side of him contemplated just taking off with the cash. It was certainly enough to keep them going for a few years. Retirement even, if they were careful. He could move Bucky into a better medical facility than the current one...

Steve gripped the cool porcelain edge of the sink, fighting down the wave of hopelessness. No, T’Challa had been right about him; Steve would have willingly given up anything if it meant finding a cure. Not that he had much left to give; his career as an Architect was a small price to pay in the grand scheme of things, although in his weaker moments he missed the days when his biggest worries had been a missed deadline or two.

Steve had never thought he’d become an artist, but something about it called to him after he left the military; when he set pencil to paper it felt natural in a way those years of service never had. There was something extraordinary about the way a few lines could give beauty and meaning to a empty space. He went from a world of gunfire and tactical briefings to charcoals and watercolors. Instead of helicopters and tanks he painted cathedrals and bridges, landscapes and families.

He’d first met Natasha in a figure drawing class. One of the other artists wouldn't stop badgering her, leering and making comments about what he’d like to do to parts of her anatomy. He’d gotten bold enough to paw at her leg and Steve had been about to bodily drag him out of the studio until Natasha put the creeper's head through his own canvas. Things had… devolved after that.

_“You don't even like drawing,” grumbled Steve as they rode the elevator down from the studio they'd both kindly been asked to leave. “Why are you taking this class anyway?”_

_“I prefer to people-watch,” Natasha hefted her busted easel over one paint-stained shoulder. Her canvas - great big hole in the center - was a comically childish stick figure rendering of the live model. “You’d be surprised what you can learn.”_

He had bumped into Sam later on; at a charity ball for veterans where one of Steve’s paintings was up for auction. A slightly tipsy Sam had taken one look at the painting and loudly proclaimed that his grandmother, god rest her soul, could do better than this dinky bullshit. A very tipsy Bucky shoved Sam into a fountain, misjudged his footing, and toppled in gracelessly only to catch a fist to the face from a disgruntled and soaked Sam. The ensuing water wrestling match brought the entire retinue of security guards down on them. Steve managed to avoid being dragged into the brawl, but that didn’t stop the museum from slapping him, along with the two instigators, with a lifetime ban.

Being thrown out from places seemed to be a running theme with his friends.

But when it came to the dream world, the four of them were an unstoppable team; Steve as the Architect, creating worlds for them to work in. As a Point man, Sam was reliable and organized, holding the team together with his steady presence. Wily and mercurial, Natasha’s Forging skills allowed her slip into any disguise. Bucky, always a natural with people, could Extract info from the most stubborn of marks. All three of them had unequivocally decided that Steve should be the one in charge.

_“You might not like leading, but even I gotta admit you have a real knack for it.” Bucky flattened his can into a tin circle. “Give it up for the man with the plan.”_

_It was a wintry Sunday morning and two of them were sitting on the fire escape with a pack of beers and day-old takeout. The pale sunlight made Steve’s eyes hurt, heavy as they were from the blurriness that came from too many night of dream walking._

_Steve snorted. “Someone has to pull your butts out of the fire.”_

_“Hah, you say that as if you aren't the biggest hothead out of us all.” Bucky gave him a lopsided grin._ _An ugly knit beanie was tugged low over his ears. “Old man Phillips’s prize zinnias have never been the same since that stunt you pulled.”_

_“It worked, didn’t it?” Steve rubbed the bruise on his chin. It was surprising how many things you could build on an airplane. Especially one that was on fire. “See if I save your sorry behind next time, dumbass.”_

_“Takes one to know one,” Bucky tossed him a jaunty salute._

Sam’s place was the nicest, so they tended to crash there on long jobs. To Sam’s dismay, his three colleagues brought their clutter with them, which only accumulated as the years went by. Steve’s motorcycle magazines found a place next to Sam’s record collection, while the coffee table was piled high with Natasha’s knitting projects and Bucky’s comic books.

There were so many good memories of them in this apartment; long hours spent preparing for an mission, patching up wounds, sharing celebratory pizza. It had been more than just a shared workplace or a couch to crash on - it had felt like a home.

Until Steve had gone and ruined all that.

Looking up from the sink, Steve’s reflection stared back at him from the cabinet mirror. Natasha had always teased him about having a baby face, but the bright-eyed artist he'd once been seemed to belong to a different life; beneath his shaggy dark blond hair, the beard he'd let grow had spread thickly over his chin and jaw. He tried to avoid looking at his eyes - ever since the Incident they seemed out of place in his face, something aged and strange lurking in the depths.

Sighing, Steve slicked his hair back and hung the towel on the rack. He threw on a pair of sweatpants and an undershirt before heading to the kitchen.

Sam and Natasha were already at the table. Over mugs of coffee and juice, they were engaged in a silent exchange of Meaningful Looks, probably debating which of them would have the daunting task of Having The Talk with Steve.

Steve went over to the stove and started making eggs.

Natasha cleared her throat. “Talk about a trip down memory lane, huh?”

“Way to for the jugular there, Nat.” Steve didn’t look up from the stove. So they really were going to address the elephant in the room. His spatula knocked against a yolk too hard and it broke, flooding the pan with its yellow guts. Dammit.

“There’s no point dancing around it. This job is heading into a place you wanted to leave behind.” Candid as always, Sam cut straight to the heart of the matter. “We're just laying out all your options - and by the way you can still say no to this.”

“There's nothing to debate. I have to do this,” Steve tightened his grip on the spatula. “I owe him that much.”

There was a pause. Probably Sam and Natasha sharing another ‘we are worried about Steve’ look, Steve thought peevishly. They’d tried, over the years, to be understanding but it was frustrating being handled with kid-gloves all the time. As if he was a time bomb about to go off.

“You always have a choice.” Sam said kindly. “You don't have to do it for us, or T'Challa, or even…” He was cut off as Steve set his plate down with a clunk.

“Is that what this is? An intervention?” Steve scraped bits of solidifying egg off the edges of the pan. “Because if you're worried I’m going to do something reckless...”

“Nah, the meeting for that is next Tuesday.” Sam said drily. “Support group for Steve’s friends who put up with his crazy shit.”

“I’m not asking you to go with me.” Steve said. “This is my mess to clean up. I’ll do this with or without you.”

“Steve, we would've respected your decision whether you accepted this job or turned it down.” Natasha put a hand on his arm. He turned, looking down into her surprisingly open face. “You’re our team leader, yes, but more importantly, you’re our friend." Her hand squeezed his. “You don’t have to do this alone.”

Natasha’s voice was level, but Steve had known her long enough to be able to sense the emotion beneath it. Losing Bucky had been hard on her as well - after the Incident, she had left the group to strike out on her own, returning sporadically with quirky souvenirs and stories that were just barely on the believable side of outrageous.

As Steve cast his mind back, he realised that the last two days had been the longest they'd all been together since her departure. How long had it been since they'd all shared a meal in this kitchen together?

Natasha gave him a soft smile. “I miss him too.”

"We're here for you, Steve." Sam nodded.

Steve looked at the only two friends he had left in the world and quietly crushed the lingering remnants of self-doubt. “Guess I have nothing to worry about. We're doing this.”

“That's what I like to hear,” Natasha grinned. “As a wise captain once said: let’s get down to business.”

“We have a lot of planning to do,” Steve agreed, joining them both at the table.

The moment over, Sam reverted to work mode. “For starters, we're going to need a bigger team. This isn’t your basic infiltration sting where we steal few company secrets \- that stuff is so easy that we could do it in our sleep,” Sam tilted his neck to the side, narrowly dodging a grape thrown by a groaning Natasha. “A full blown inception is going to take more than the three of us to carry out.”

“Did you have anyone in mind?”

"I know a guy. Engineer, knows a thing or two about chemicals as well. He’s a little nervous, but he knows his stuff," Sam said. “Scott Lang. He was one of the key people involved in the Cross-Pym job.”

“I heard about that job. We could definitely use a guy with his chemistry skills.” Steve started adding fruit to his oatmeal. "We’re gonna need a new architect as well."

"Yeah, we want to avoid another Vanko situation.” Sam drummed his fingers on the table. “We've got to screen them better so the next son of a bitch doesn’t…”

“Language,” Steve answered automatically, spearing an apple slice on his fork and ignoring two pairs of rolled eyes. “I was thinking we go for someone younger this time round. A student, for instance.”

“Uh, T’Challa did give us enough money for the next couple decades,” Sam ran a hand through his buzzcut. “We can afford to hire professionals. We don’t need to scrimp on building the team.”

“True, but expensive doesn't mean better. We'd be better off with someone doesn’t have an agenda.” Steve took a bite of his food. “Can't go wrong with some youthful zest.”

“Christ, Steve, you’re not that old,” Sam leaned his chair back on the rear legs. “And that’s so typical of you - of course you'd stand up for the little guys and starving artists…”

“Well then, it's a good thing I've been keeping an eye on the design schools for the next bright young thing,” Natasha looked up from her tablet. She pulled up a social media page of a dark-haired young woman wearing heavy eye makeup. “Wanda Maximoff. She seems the most promising of the bunch.”

“Thanks, Nat. I'll have a chat with her."

A silence fell over the table. Something felt significant about the moment, but Steve couldn’t put his finger on why. “Looks like the gang’s back together again.”

Natasha chuckled softly. “Just like old times.”

"Well, I wouldn’t say exactly like old times, we've gotten a lot better at not getting kicked out of every place we go to.”

“Not true,” Sam grinned. “Nat was telling me about that time she trashed a pub in London.”

“That's a huge exaggeration, it was only one tiny brawl. Hardly what you'd call a ‘trashing’, no matter how you slice it.” Natasha blew a stray strand of red hair out of her eyes. “The fire was definitely an accident though.”

They bantered with an easy humor and for a second Steve felt a sense of deja vu - back to when they were younger and more idealistic and a whole lot more reckless. Then the moment of nostalgia faded, leaving only a feeling of resolve. The emptiness of the fourth seat seemed more pronounced than ever.

Steve clinked his coffee mug against Natasha’s espresso cup and Sam's glass of orange juice. "Here’s to success."

\--

Wanda was a sophomore with a penchant for red leather jackets and black nail polish. Her entire style - from the pin-straight dark brown hair and heavily lined eyes which pinned him with a frosty gaze - screamed punk rock vampire.

Maybe her grumpiness had been Steve’s fault. Small talk had never been his strong suit.

Wanda’s phone wallpaper was a photo of her laughing with an arm wrapped around a young man. She looked younger in the image - her hair was wavy and honey blonde while his was an eye-searing shade of silver.

“Your friend has cool hair. Is that the unicorn hair trend-?”

“He’s not my friend.” Wanda shoved her phone into a pocket with a surly glare. “You said something about an internship?”

It was night time and they were seated at one of the study areas surrounding the quad. Everything was quiet except for the distant boom of music from an event going on at a different part of the school. To anyone passing by it looked like a regular tutoring session between a college student and a TA.

Some of Wanda's sullenness had fallen away as Steve explained the basics of dream-building.

“So, tell me if I've got this right,” Wanda asked, flicking a lock of dark hair over her shoulder.  “How does designing a dream create a new reality?”

“The architect creates the world of the dream; buildings, landscapes, whatever you can think up.” Steve said. Of course, the world of the dream was only as expansive as the architect’s imagination: a competent designer could create mazes that would take hours to solve, a skilled one - days. Anyone who could design a maze that took months - years - to break through was on another level.

“You mean if I wanted to be in the Louvre, I could create it myself instantly instead of flying to Europe?”

“I wouldn't recommend copying real world buildings exactly. The worst thing that could happen is if your mind loses its grip on reality.” Steve nodded at her sketchbook, which was opened to a study of bridge drawings. “You're a designer, put your own spin on it.”

“That’s…wow. A place where art comes to life, I could do so much...” Wanda’s kohl-lined eyes widened, mind flitting through all the creative possibilities. She paused. “Wait, what was that about forgetting reality? Isn't that dangerous?”

“There are lots of things that are out to get you,” Steve said carefully. Best to sidestep _that_ subject. For now, at least. “Projections, for one.”

“Projections of?”

“Can't have a city without people, right? When we go into a dream, the target’s mind will populate your world with projections. ” Steve said. “Normally they’re harmless. But if you alter the world too much they can get violent.”

Wanda wrinkled her nose. “I don't think I’ll be much help in a fight…”

“Don't worry, I don’t expect you to fight. The rest of the team will handle any dangerous tasks.” Steve said. “But who knows, you might surprise yourself.”

“Maybe.” Wanda shrugged. “What's the difference between a Point, Forger and an Architect?”

“The Forger impersonates people that the target knows in real life to manipulate the subconscious. Parents, siblings, girlfriends...” Steve raised a finger, seeing Wanda’s eyebrows rise. “I know how it sounds, but it helps to play the emotional angle.”

She crossed her arms. “Sounds like a real mata hari.”

“Kind of. And I'll tell her you said that.” Steve smiled, imagining Natasha’s reaction.

“The Point is the second in command, making sure everything and everyone is where they should be. And the Extractor - that's my role - deals with the target directly, getting them to trust me so we can extract the information we need.” Steve continued.

“We use a countdown song to keep track of time, so the team can synchronize their exit from the dream.” Steve explained.

“How do we do that?”

“The only way to getting out of a dream is to die. The easiest way is to fall from a high place.” Steve watched her carefully to see how she’d take that piece of information. This was the part of the conversation where most sane people yelled at him and walked away.

Wanda looked thoughtful instead of running for the hills, so he supposed that was a good sign. “Is that why you said it’s dangerous to forget the difference between dreams and reality…?”

“...Partly. That’s why we use totems to help us tell whether we’re in a dream or reality. But I’ll explain that another time.”

“That’s cool, how you guys have this superhero spy thing going on.” Wanda looked excited at the prospect, no doubt imagining all types of adventurous scenarios. “Sure beats the internship my friend got at some ad agency.”

Her interest was heartening, but Steve hoped Wanda wouldn't balk at the less glamorous parts of the job: combing through financial reports and digging up dirt on targets. “It's not all fun and games, you're going to have put in solid hard work for the next few weeks.”

“Hard work sounds great. Just what I need right now.” Wanda fiddled with the corner of her jacket. Her mouth twitched as she looked down at her hands. “Gotta take my mind off… stuff.”

Sensing they were approaching a touchy subject, Steve decided not to pry. “Alright, now that you understand the basics, I have a test for you.”

Wanda’s eyes lit up at the challenge and quickly flipped open her sketchbook to a fresh page. Her enthusiasm had him feeling nostalgic; he remembered what it was like to be eager to show off his skill, so full of ideas that they were bursting out of him.

“A good architect needs to be able to design on the fly, creating structures that are convincing enough to fool the mark, while also being tactically sound.” Steve said. “You have two minutes to design a maze that takes me one minute to solve. Go.”

Wanda set to work, her pencil flying as she sketched out a series of tunnels and routes.

“Stop,” A few swipes of his pen and Steve was done with the maze in ten seconds. “Not good enough. Try again.”

Wanda's brow furrowed in concentration as she furiously sketched attempt after attempt, all of which Steve solved easily. It wasn’t like she was doing a bad job - she’d grasped the concepts faster than most people had, and Steve noticed that she kept getting closer with every new attempt - but she hadn’t quite gotten the hang of it yet.

Wanda grew more agitated as her ideas were discarded, but like any artist her perfectionism been piqued. He sent a mental thanks for Natasha being such an excellent judge of character.

A sudden loud noise had Wanda jumping in alarm. “Who’s that?”

In the distance, the silhouette of a man was stumbling across the quad. He lurched like he was about to fall, but at the last second caught himself against a tree. With one hand against the trunk, his head hung low over his chest, body hunched in on itself like he was about to throw up or pass out.

Wanda hovered anxiously. “Do you think we should help him?”

Steve held out an arm to hold her back. “Stay here, I'll go see how he's doing.”

“He looks drunk.”

“I can’t tell from here. Just get ready to call for help in case he gets violent.” Steve cautiously made his way over to the man. Propped up against the tree, the stranger was breathing heavily and was clutching at the chest of his fine, though extremely rumpled suit.

“Everything alright there, friend?” Of all the things that had happened this week, talking to strange men in the middle of the night whilst interviewing a college student wasn’t how Steve thought this day would turn out.

The man turned towards his voice and Steve realized with a shock that he was staring into the face of a bedraggled Tony Stark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes...behold the first of my embellishments to the film, haha.
> 
> I'm so in love with Steve's fam in TWS. Natasha and Sam are such good friends to him it always makes me cry TT^TT
> 
> Have some flower symbolism cuz I'm a nerd :p
> 
> Zinnias - The Victorian meaning of zinnias is thoughts of an absent friend. Other meanings include: thoughts of friends, endurance, daily remembrance, goodness and lasting affection. I would offer the zinnia flower on any occasion but especially when a person is feeling directionless or lost.
> 
> http://www.flowermeaning.com/zinnia-flower-meaning/
> 
> I'm on [tumblr](http://peppypear.tumblr.com/)


	3. Chapter 3

Steve was shocked by how strung-out Stark looked; dark shadows were ringed around swollen eyes, his clothes hung loosely on his compact frame like he'd lost a lot of weight, the scent clinging to him reeked of sweat and medicine and too much coffee.

Stark jerked and threw up over the roots of the tree.

Some of it splattered over Steve’s shoes and pant leg but he paid it no mind, wordlessly reaching out to hold Stark’s coat out of the way.

After what felt like a long time, the retching stopped. Stark’s head remained hanging down, a pained whine escaping his lips. He started to sway but Steve quickly caught him by the arm before he could pitch forward into his own sick. Steve wrapped an arm around his waist for support, walked him away from the tree and sat him down on one the benches surrounding the quad.

Stark hissed at the jostling. He fished something out of his pocket but it slipped from his unsteady fingers, falling onto the withered grass. He looked like he was going to cry, face twisting as he reached for the fallen pill box with slow, laborious movements.

“Easy, I'll get that for you.” Steve retrieved the pill box and handed it to Stark, who practically snatched it out of his hands. The dark-haired man shakily tapped out two tablets and dry-swallowed them.

Steve sat down next to him, watching Stark try to get his bearings back. This… was definitely unexpected. He hadn’t known the man would be on campus this very day. Stark was shorter than he’d appeared in the images he’d seen, perhaps half a head shorter than Steve. Most striking of all was the dramatic difference in personality; the tired, worn-down man gasping in front of Steve was a far cry from the flashy and confident man he’d seen in T’Challa’s video.

“Not much to look at, huh, honeybear?” Stark said, his attempt at a sardonic grin clashing horribly with his dishevelled appearance.

Steve started, realising he’d been staring a bit too long. “Uh, excuse me?”

“I didn’t see you at my speech. Are you new here? New lecturer? You look like an art history type of guy.” Stark's bleary eyes wandered over Steve. “Has anyone told you you have the face of a Michelangelo? And the body of a...”

“People have called me a lot of things,” Steve decided to ignore the half-hearted attempt flirting. The poor man was clearly disoriented. “You don’t look too good. Do you need help?”

“Hah. We all need help. There are probably at least three, six medications I should be on, I dunno, but nope, can’t afford hurt the share price after the last time…” Stark didn’t seem to hear him, rambling on about drones, table condiments (pepper?), and some person called Stain.

Steve listened, feeling a bit helpless against the verbal barrage.

“...and that’s why I can’t bring strawberries into the office anymore.” Stark finished his rant with a disgusted scoff. He nudged his knee against Steve’s, like he expected Steve to know what he was talking about. “Unbelievable, right?”

“Um. Fascinating.” Steve shifted restlessly. If all Stark needed was a conversation partner, then he should leave him to get back to Wanda. “Are you gonna be okay?”

Stark hunched forward, hands resting on his knees. “Totally hypothetical here, but if you knew this year was the last birthday you were going to have, what would you do?” He pitched his voice to sound casual but there was an odd tone to it.

Steve stared at him.

Stark’s expectant gaze melted away as the silence drew out. “That’s what I thought, huh? Never mind, stupid question anyway…” Stark sounded gruff as he staggered to his feet. “Sorry for puking on your shoes. Take this, it’s not like I’ll need it…” He rummaged around for his wallet and held it out to Steve with a lopsided grin.

A sense of dread made Steve’s words catch in his throat, and he was unable to do more than stare back.

Stark’s face twitched, and he leaned over to place the wallet on the seat beside Steve. After a short hesitation, he unfastened his wristwatch too, carelessly clapping down what must have been a fifty thousand-dollar watch on the grimy wooden bench. Stark turned away, jerkily stuffing his hands back into his pockets.

As Steve watched him walk away, something about the set of Stark’s shoulders stirred a memory.

There had been two days which Steve could, without question, classify as the worst two days of his life. The first time happened when he was abroad with his platoon; the news of his mother’s passing was more devastating than any mortar round.

The second time had started with Bucky spending an entire morning tidying, tossing out the trash in a rare streak of productivity. “Heading out to stretch my legs, Steve,” he said, rolling his shoulders till they popped. It had snowed the night before, which meant Steve could hear Bucky’s footsteps crunching away down the street. Steve had thought nothing of it until that evening when a grim-faced officer showed up on his doorstep with the news that Bucky... that Bucky had…

“Tony,” Steve stood and grasped him by the elbow. “Come on, let’s take a walk.”

Surprisingly, Stark followed him without question. And for a while they walked in silence around the quad, their shoulders brushing together occasionally.

The nights were getting colder, and their breaths puffed out in clouds. Even Steve’s sturdy constitution wasn't enough to fully resist the chill in the air; it’d be a few short weeks until winter was in full swing. He glanced over at Stark. The other man had pulled his coat tightly around him, shivering slightly but his thoughts seemed elsewhere.

Stark was cold...so? Why should that matter? It wasn't any of Steve's business. The fact that he had spent this long talking to Stark went against every protocol of dream walking. It was a bad idea to have too much contact with a target - any residual memories could affect the construction of the dream. The proper, by-the-book, thing to do would be to focus on the mission and just let Stark go.

And yet he couldn't simply... Steve sneaked a glance over at the dark-ringed eyes.

Some things were important than work.

They were on their second circuit of the quad when Steve decided to put an end to the awkward silence.

“So how’d that speech go?”

Apparently that was enough to get Stark talking again, because he fired off another stream of words. Despite his unkempt appearance he spoke animatedly, as if trying to cover up his earlier dejection. Every sentence branched off into a random tangent - of flight systems, the benefits of chlorophyll, robots he had designed, the best burger place in the college town. Stark didn’t comment on how Steve knew his name, probably assuming him to be just another fan. He didn’t ask Steve’s name in return, which was a relief.

He was also very tactile; Stark talked with his hands, frequently touching Steve on the shoulder or arm to emphasise some point or other. Talking seemed to have a positive effect and at least he was less teary than before. It was hard to get a word in edgewise; the most Steve could was do nod, comment occasionally, or make sounds at the right places. Stark didn’t seem to mind, and Steve found he didn't mind the chatter either.

The least Steve could do was to make sure Stark was alright until his minders showed up.

“My dad never thought much of community outreach, his loss really. He talked about the future all the time, but he didn’t think about investing in what was really important.” Stark said on their fifth circuit around the quad. He gestured towards Wanda, who was now watching them curiously. “It’s people like her who are going to change the world. Kids, they’re the future.”

“Every-”

“I just gave a full ride to this year’s class.” Stark carried on. “Bright kids, all of them. I mean, give people a little faith and they’ll make you proud…”

“That’s really gene-”

“But honestly they give me too much credit - I show up for the speech, shake a few hands, I mean, it's not like I-” Stark abruptly stopped walking. “You haven’t said much, Tall Blond, and Brooding. I hope I’m not boring you?”

“You're not exactly giving me room to breathe here.” Steve said slowly, wondering if he was going to get interrupted again.

“Room to breathe, that's funny. How it’s the simple things you take for granted, that you don’t need to think about, until you do…” Stark’s breathing started to speed up again and his hand drifted to his sternum almost unconsciously.

“Hey, it’s alright. Here, you better sit down.” They had circled around the whole quad to the same bench. Steve reached for his arm but Stark swatted his hands away.

“Do you ever wish you had more time to do the things you wanted to?” Stark asked quietly. His mood from earlier had returned.

“Doesn’t everyone?” Caught off guard, Steve fumbled around for an answer. “There are people I wished I’d spent more time with, things I wanted to learn…”

“Spare me the Hallmark speech,” Stark cut in. “You never answered my question: If you had only one more birthday left, how would you want to spend it?”

Steve canted his head to one side. “What's this really about?”

Stark took a few steps closer, brown eyes roving over Steve’s face. “I don't know why, but I can't get a read on you,” It sounded like he was talking more to himself than Steve. “That never happens… I wonder why that is.”

“What?”

“What do you want? What makes you happy?” Stark’s eyes had regained their former sharpness, but there remained a tinge of desperation in them.

Steve blinked. “I…”

He really didn’t know. He had no clue what to do, and Stark was gazing at him like he held all the answers in the universe.

“I wouldn’t want to be alone.” Steve said, feeling like the biggest hypocrite in the world and desperately hoping he wasn’t giving the wrong answer. They were getting into dangerous territory again, and with Stark in such a vulnerable mental state, there was no telling what could set him off. “I’d want a friend…”

Stark made a derisive sound. “Yeah, give them a front row seat to your bullshit, why don't you? Inflict the knowledge that you're _dy-_ Why would you do that to someone you care about?” His words choked off at the end like he was on the verge of tears. “We're all alone here, sugarbear.”

They hadn’t even started digging into Stark’s life yet, but it felt intensely wrong to stand here watching the man going through a mental breakdown. Steve never knew the right things to say in these types of situations.

“Listen, I don't know what's going on, but…” Steve reached out his hands cautiously, settling them on Stark’s shoulders. “Don't waste your life thinking that. You aren't alone.”

“I look at you say that and I almost believe you.” Stark didn't bother brushing off his hands, peering up at Steve with slow tired blinks. “Isn't that what my life has been? A big fat waste and it fucking sucks.”

“It’s gonna be alright. Do you have someone that I can call?” Steve tried to sound placating, feeling more and more unequipped to handle the situation. Stark had mentioned he was here for an event, so maybe that meant he had a bodyguard or two around.

“You can’t.” Stark said shakily. His hands dropped to his sides, which clenched tightly into fists. “It’s too late.”

The roar of an engine filled the air.

“Boss!” A Rolls Royce pulled up to the other end of the quad. A tall, wide-set man in a suit got out and began hurrying towards them.

Steve waved him over. “Hey, is this your guy?”

The man slung Stark’s arm over a broad shoulder like he’d done it hundreds of times before, giving Steve a brusque nod as he half-walked, half-carried his boss to the car. In a few seconds the car was gone, leaving Steve standing alone in the empty driveway.

Steve huffed out a sigh. His own words sounded clumsy and vapid even to himself. _You’re not alone._ Of course everyone was. He’d been alone with his mistakes for years just like whatever demons Stark had in his own head…

Something glinted in front of him. Stark had left his watch behind on the bench.

“Steve? Here's the maze you asked for.” Wanda hesitantly crept up behind him. Steve quickly stuffed the watch in his pocket as she held out her sketchpad. “Can you tell me what you think?"

In clean, precise pen strokes, she had drawn a circular labyrinth.

Nodding, Steve extended a hand. “Great work, Wanda, you're hired.”

Smiling, Wanda shook it. Then she paused. “Can we discuss my salary now?”

\--

Scott and Wanda fell into sync comfortably alongside Sam and Natasha, and in no time it felt as if they’d all been working together for years. The next few weeks passed swiftly as plans for the inception materialized.

With Scott joining the growing club of people crashing on Sam’s couch and Wanda coming over to work on designs every second she wasn’t in class, Sam’s home was the liveliest it had been in a long time. (“Dammit, guys, my house is not your personal B&B. Clean up your shit!”). The living room table looked like a hurricane had hit it - strewn with architectural drawings and sheets of chemical calculations.

Natasha came and went all hours of the day, but that was to be expected; her information-gathering stints took up most of her time. Steve had no idea how she'd managed to land a placement in SI’s legal department without setting off any of their extensive background checks, but he’d long since learned to stop questioning the clout of Natasha’s impressive spy network.

Now, with only two weeks to the deadline, everyone was gathered in Sam’s living room for a team meeting.

There had been an awkward moment when T’Challa and Nakia unexpectedly showed up, and Sam half-jokingly offered T’Challa a bowl of cereal. To everyone’s surprise the T’Challa had accepted his offer and was now seated on Sam’s old couch munching serenely on Froot Loops. Steve supposed they'd had stranger days.

Scott tapped Sam on the shoulder. _Is that guy really a king?_ He mouthed. Sam ignored him.

“Nat, can you tell us what you learned while undercover at SI?” Steve asked.

“Sure thing,” Nat pulled up a slideshow of images on the projector screen. “Tony Stark, age 46. Genius level IQ. Graduated MIT at 17, took over as CEO at 21 after his parents’ death. Multiple PhDs in physics and engineering. Hundreds of patents in weapons and defense systems. Philanthropist. Casanova.”

With every sentence she flicked through news articles and press photos. Stark sipping drinks at a gala, giving a presentation on stage, cutting a ribbon at a charity ball, throwing a party in Vegas.

“He speaks five languages, and his hobbies include horse riding and restoring vintage cars.”

“That’s all you have to show for several weeks worth of work? I didn't hire you to recite the contents of his wiki page.” T’Challa remarked as he took a sip of sugary rainbow-tinged milk.

"Just giving everyone some background context. I spent my time at SI learning digging up the real dirt.” Natasha swiped at her tablet, bringing up second round of images.

Natasha pulled up a family photo of the Starks. It looked like it came from private family album, and had probably been one of the last photos taken together, because Tony looked like he couldn't have been older than twenty.

Silver-haired and handsome, with a proprietary arm around his wife, Howard Stark was the very picture of the moneyed industrialist. The old man knew how to command presence about him, and Steve could see the inklings of it in the younger Tony’s face. But that was where the physical resemblance ended, because where Howard’s eyes were cold and shrewd, Tony had inherited his mother’s expressive brown doe eyes.

“This was taken a few weeks before the car accident. Word on the inside is a turbulent family life - they played up the family angle in business settings, but Howard and Tony never got along.” Nat said. “Mom’s very private, there's barely anything on her other than a few charity balls and ribbon cuttings.”

Steve rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “How about his social circle?”

“His best friend is Colonel James Rhodes, 48. They’ve known each other since MIT and he's probably the only one knows Tony the best.” The next picture showed a stern-faced faced man in an air force uniform. Other than a few pixelated selfies from their college days, there weren't too many images of Rhodes. “The bad news is he was WIA a few months ago so we can't get to him. Still recuperating at an army hospital.”

“That’s too bad, he’d have been a useful source.” Steve mused. “What other relationships can we use? Girlfriends? Boyfriends?”

“He dated a whole string of supermodels and actresses over the years, but nothing ever serious.” Natasha had compiled a huge collection of tabloid covers and paparazzi photos of Stark out with a model or pop star. Stark didn't have a type other than young and pretty...he did seem partial to blondes, though.

“We do have one lead.” A photo of a willowy redhead appeared. “Pepper Potts, Tony’s personal assistant and the only person at SI he trusts,” The earlier pictures of them had captured a spark of genuine closeness between Potts and Stark, but as the photos became more recent, the distance between them had grown. The most recent picture showed them standing side by side at a conference, a chilly aura palpable through the screen. “They broke off their engagement in 2013. Still remained friendly, although she’s now married to the head of his security team.”

“That’s gonna sting,” Scott commented. “Exes are always messy.”

“Wait till you see what’s next,” Natasha muttered.

The next slide showed a bald man with jovial smile plastered on his cheeks. “Obadiah Stane. Howard Stark’s right hand man back in the day and Tony’s godfather. He’s one of the old guard and still has a lot of sway over the company. The relationship between him and Tony is...complicated.”

“Complicated in what way?”

Natasha paused, considering. “Imagine if Santa Claus had a baby with Emperor Palpatine. Creepy.” For Natasha - who dealt with creeps on a daily basis - to consider Stane creepy spoke volumes about his character. “There’s a whole dirty story there, not even counting the deals he’s cut under the table.”

“What type of deals?”

“There's evidence suggesting he's selling to terrorists, rogue nation, dictators…” Natasha shook her head. “If I had more time I could dig something up more concrete, but this is all I got.”

She flicked through a series of images: a blurry photo of Stane talking to soldiers, Stane getting into a car with a bearded man in sunglasses (“That man is on several government watchlists.” Nakia murmured). The last photo showed Stane and Stark having a conversation at one of the factories - Stane standing a little too close, large hands draped on Stark’s shoulders.

“Are you saying that Stark is involved criminal activity?” T’Challa had gone still at the sight of the images.

“From what I gathered, Stark doesn’t know a thing about it.” Natasha shook her head. “So, no. Not directly, at least.”

“That only speaks to his poor leadership,” T’Challa pressed his lips together, disappointed.

“In 2008 Tony was kidnapped in Afghanistan during a business conference. Yeah, I was surprised too, their PR worked hard to keep it out of the news.” Nat went on. “He was held by a terrorist group for nearly three months until Stane quietly paid the ransom. At the end of that year, SI applied for a record number of patents - more than triple previous years.”

The next images were a series of marketing materials for drones, missiles, and satellite systems. “You’ll notice that every product released since ‘08 was related to surveillance systems and weapons technology. They've been pumping out more and more ever since."

“So, Stark gets kidnapped, then starts creating gadgets as a security blanket?” Sam asked.

“It gets worse. During a tech convention a few months back, Tony held a private presentation for government officials where he unveiled a new artificial intelligence system, ULTRON. From all the tech reports I combed through, it’s set to go live as early as next year.” Natasha acknowledged T’Challa with a nod. “I can see why you want to shut him down so quickly. Threat analysis, DNA tracking… this is some scary Skynet stuff."

"Few were trusted with that information.” T’Challa looked satisfied. "Very impressive work, Ms Romanoff."

Natasha closed her presentation with a smile. “What can I say? I’m a professional.”

Scott’s mouth was hanging open at the massive overload of information. “Where do we even begin unpack all this… we’ve got the distant parents, the ex-girlfriend, the sleazy business partner, international kidnapping...” He shook his head in disbelief. “I've seen soap operas less complicated than this.”

Steve cleared his throat. “You have to remember that the subconscious runs on emotion. So we need to distill all this-” He gestured at the screen. “Down to one essential thing."

“What would that be?” T’Challa asked. “How would one translate a business strategy into…”

“You focus on the relationship with the father.” Nakia said. Steve nodded in agreement with her.

“We could tell him to stick it to the old man by tearing everything down,” Scott offered. “They hated each other, so let's go with the daddy issues.”

The others made vague sounds of agreement, and Steve was tempted to concur.

That course of action was the most tried and true, no doubt. Eroding the bonds of a strong relationship was the surest way to alter a target’s mind. Forcing a person to reexamine their closest memories under a microscope, finding the worst motives in every crack and scar. Most people were already paranoid, it didn't take much to convince someone to believe the absolute worst of their loved ones: _They never really loved you, everybody is wrong but you, you have to do this on your own, everything was a lie._

There was no other way… was there?

He thought of Stark, brown eyes broken and pleading. Thought of Bucky, After, crooked grin never quite reaching his eyes.

No, the insidiousness of that plan made Steve feel sick. Breaking up Stark’s relationships was not the right thing to do - there had to be another way. Steve couldn't pretend there was anything moral about what they were planning to do. But he could put it in a gentler guise, if only for his own conscience.

After all, what was life but a gentle lie?

“I disagree, I think we should go with something positive.” Steve said, slow and sure. “That always wins out over negativity.”

Sam nodded, a thoughtful gleam in his eyes. “We all yearn for catharsis.”

“It has to be a simple message so it can take root.” Natasha said. “The mind becomes more suggestible the more levels we go down.”

“So he gives himself the idea?” Sam asked.

Natasha nodded. “Exactly. Sometimes the simplest advice is the best.”

“How about: I'm not my father, I'm my own man. I will build something new with my life.” Sam suggested.

“That’s a start,” Natasha said. “ ‘I won’t live in the past.’ ”

Both of them turned to Steve with knowingly pointed looks.

 Sometimes his friends were the worst. Steve frowned at Sam and Natasha, trying to suppress an internal squirm. They knew him too well. Any other time he would have (grudging) appreciated the concern, but T’Challa and Nakia seemed a bit too interested in their not-conversation, and Wanda and Scott were starting to give them weird looks.

“We could work with that.” Steve forced himself to speak, hoping that no one had noticed his lapse in focus. He turned to Scott. “Did you make the formula we asked for?”

Scott perked up from his slouched position on the couch. “I've been synthesizing a new sedative that can sustain multiple levels of dreams while leaving inner ear function intact.” He shivered “Wouldn’t want to go too deep without giving ourselves a way out.”

“This is what I've prepared for each layer of the dream.” Wanda took over the screen. Her design concepts flashed on screen, showing floor plans, 3D renderings. Mazes. “Lots of places to hide, easy to defend against any violent projections.”

“This is great, but all our plans mean squat if we can’t get the guy alone.” Sam said. “He’s pretty much surrounded by bodyguards 24/7.”

“Tony has a heart condition.” said Natasha. “Every few months he checks into a private hospital for a medical procedure. The next one’s due in 2 weeks, which puts us right on schedule with T’Challa’s deadline.”

Steve nodded. “Then that's our only chance. We hit the hospital.”

“Okay, but…” Sam began counting out on each finger. “That'd mean we'd have to buy out the entire wing of the hospital and all the doctors, staff, drivers….”

“Actually,” Looking up from his phone, T'Challa broke in. "I just bought the hospital. And all the buildings next to it, the businesses, the security company that monitors the CCTVs on that street…”

T’Challa shifted in his chair under the weight of five incredulous gazes, looking sheepish for the first time since Steve had met him. “It seemed neater."

Sam gave a whistle. “I can't say you do things by halves, your worship.”

“No I don't.” T’Challa shot him a decidedly unamused look while Nakia hid a smile behind a hand.

Steve resumed. “All right then. On that day the five of us will meet at the hospital-”

“Six,” T'Challa interrupted. “I'm coming along as well.”

“I'm not sure that’s a good idea, your highness. It's very dangerous.” Natasha said.

It should have been hard to look kingly while holding a half-eaten bowl of cereal, but T'Challa managed it somehow. “I have been trained in combat and possess a basic understanding of dream physics, so you won't have to worry about me slowing you down.”

T’Challa turned to Nakia and they exchanged a few terse words in Xhosa. She didn't look thrilled, but she gave him a grudging nod. “Besides, my sister, Shuri, will be handling medical support, and there's no one I trust more than her.”

Steve stood “Then it looks like we've got everything covered,” He looked up at the last picture on the slideshow. The photo had been taken at an airbase - snapped mid-pose when Stark was halfway down the stairs of a plane, one hand resting on the guardrail. His face was frozen in a smirk, eyes hidden behind sunglasses. “Best of luck to us.”

_I'm coming for you._

Silence fell over the room as the gravity of the mission sunk in.

Scott coughed awkwardly. “Can I have some Froot Loops, too?”

\--

Steve woke with a gasp as if he'd been punched. Rolling to his side, he immediately grabbed his totem off the bedside table and dropped it to the ground.

The little tin train hit the floor with a heavy ping. _Laws of physics still working. I'm awake._

He sat up and ran a hand through sweat-soaked hair, willing the traces of the nightmare to fade. Taking deep gulps of oxygen, his racing heart started to return to its normal speed.

The street was deserted, still except for a dog barking in the distance, and the clatter of a garbage truck on the street below. The grind of the metal compactor seemed too loud - an echo of train wheels - and he couldn’t resist a shudder.

The nightmares had been getting worse, just like they did everytime he neared the anniversary.

It was painfully ironic: all his working time was spent in dreams hunting down other people's secrets. When he slept, his own nightmares pursued him.

Guilt was an old friend, wrapping around his ribs to squeeze at his heart. Reminding him of things he couldn’t make right. On bad nights, the thought of slipping into the darkness didn’t sound unappealing. There was something calling him to jump, just jump…

_No. This is the real world. You're awake._

Rejecting the prospect of going back to sleep, Steve padded into the kitchen to fix a coffee. Caffeine had long stopped affecting him; an unsynchronised body clock was one of the long-term effects of being a dream walker. The mug was warm in his hands and the bitter aroma grounded him.

His eye caught on the stack of boxes which had sat in the corner of the living room for years.

Bucky’s comic books.

As much as Sam complained about messy housemates cluttering up his house with their belongings, he'd never said a word about tossing out Bucky’s things.

The comic book at the top of the stack was a vintage copy of _The Adventures of Captain America_. Steve thumbed the pages idly, smiling slightly at the colourful costumes and overly complicated booby traps.

When the four of them formed the team they’d needed a kick song, and Bucky had chosen the theme song from the old Captain America cartoon as a joke. They’d found it hilarious that a song from their childhood now served as their anchor to the real world.

The show was finding its second wave of popularity among the hipsters, and Steve sometimes did a double take when he heard it blaring from someone’s phone, suddenly unsure of the reality around him.

_Was that how Bucky had felt?_

Inception. The word was a horrible reminder. Of how the awful thoughts had eaten at Bucky’s mind until the words were the only thing left.

Bucky had always been better with people than Steve, that was what made him so good at extracting information. But both of them shared an appreciation of architecture and the unlimited possibilities offered by the dream world.

It had started innocently at first, where they'd experimented with impossible buildings. That turned into multiple dream levels, manipulating the time and space of each reality, always pushing the boundaries of what was possible.

One day, when Sam wasn't around to spot them they ventured so far that reality slipped away, like swimmers who’d gone too far from the shore.

Their time in Limbo had lasted decades. It had been a creative paradise - pushing their imaginations to the limit, building things that could never exist in the real world - nobody to stop them, not even time. Several lifetimes bookending each other, stretching into infinity. All the time in the world. It had felt like enough.

Until one day it wasn’t.

Time, that was the start and end of the problem. Once, Steve never would have thought too much time would be a bad thing. Not until he was staring eternity in the face and the full enormity of it hit him like an armor-piercing shell. Living the same days over and over again, endlessly and agelessly, was a terrifying fate.

It was that realization that made him claw his way through the fog of inertia; his memories of the real world came back to him in flashes, like watching sunlight from the bottom of the ocean. One thing had become exceedingly clear; they couldn't stay there any longer or they'd drown in madness together. Limbo wasn't real. It wasn't and couldn't ever be.

He couldn't convince Bucky. In desperation, Steve turned to the one thing he know how to do, and planted one simple thought in Bucky's head.

_This world is not real._

They'd held hands when they leapt from the train. The freefall into the freezing canyon seemed to last an eternity, ears filling with the icy roar of the wind, not knowing which direction was up or down, desperately hoping there wasn’t a sickening crunch waiting for them at the bottom _pleasewakeuppleasewakeup_

Steve had awoken to a room painted in the deep orange glow of the early evening. By the clock on the mantle, their entire sleep ( _decades, his mind supplies_ ) had lasted 20 hours at most.

A whole life, lived and yet not.

“Steve?” Bucky’s voice was barely above a whisper. His grey eyes were strangely blank, searching the ceiling as if trying to part the layers of plaster for something beyond human sight.

Bucky had been quiet for days.

But Steve hadn't noticed - he'd been too busy trying to readapt to a mortal plane of existence, that he blithely assumed that Bucky would be able to make the same adjustments.

It was a fatal mistake. He shouldn't have left him alone.

_It's all my fault, Buck._

Steve folded his head into his hands with a sigh.

The doctors managed to pull Bucky back from the brink. But they couldn't save his arm, frostbitten beyond repair from the plunge into the river. _We don't know when he’ll wake up,_ they told him. _Could be days, could be weeks._ Eventually, the waiting stretched into years, but to Steve it could have happened yesterday. What was a handful of years, when you'd lived for hundreds?

It was hard to remember he'd had a whole life before the Incident happened. Everything he remembered was divided into Before and After.

His life Before had been normal. Most of it it good, but even the bad parts had been things he could comprehend. Work, friends, _living_. And Bucky had been there from the start; defending him from bullies, standing with him at his mother’s funeral, the first person he came out to, and, after they’d completed their first military tour, the first one on his team before he met Sam and Natasha.

The After was measured in hospital visits, grim conversations with Sam, changing his job from Architect to Extractor, accepting any job that came by, long days of blank exhaustion, biting his tongue while he shook hands with corrupt businessmen, and - when he was able to sleep - fleeing from the _thing_ that lurked in in his dreams.

Sometimes Steve wondered how he had come through whole ordeal with his own sanity intact. Maybe it was because he was the one who initiated the idea. Maybe it was the part of him that was too stubborn to quit, that was still a scrawny kid who picked fights with bullies. There were a hundred maybes.

None of them mattered now, anyway. All that mattered was that he fix what he did to Bucky.

“Bad night again?” Sam was standing in the doorway wearing an army shirt over boxers and a sleepy expression.

“Yeah. I didn't mean to wake you.” Steve closed the comic on a page of Captain America punching a red villain in the face and flipped the lid of the box shut.

“Well, I’m up now.” Sam slipped past Steve, making a beeline for the coffee pot. “I could hear you thrashing around for the last twenty minutes.”

“Sorry about that.” Steve leaned against the counter. “I was thinking. About the mission.”

Sam watched him levelly, taking a swig of coffee. “I notice you haven't told the others about Bucky,” He said. “Scott and Wanda don’t know, and now T’Challa wants to come along too…”

“I taught them all the things they needed to know, and my life story isn’t one of them.” Steve said.

“They deserve to know all the risks,” Sam pointed out. “The trains are getting out of control. Remember that fiasco with the Pierce job?”

“That turned out fine in the end,” Maybe not for Rumlow, though. He wondered if the man ever recovered the feeling in his hands. “Still got the job done.”

“Barely.” Sam rubbed his temples. “Those bastards keep getting bigger and faster. A day’s gonna come that we can’t outrun them.”

“Then we’ll have to be better.” Steve looked at the ceiling. A dark impulse seized him and he said “Besides, I know you can complete the mission if anything happens to me.”

The line between Sam’s brows deepened. “Come on, man. Don’t do this.”

“I'm hoping it won't come to that. This is the one mission I can't afford to fail,” Steve down at his cup. “It’s the only way I can move past this.”

“You can’t move past anything until you face it.” Sam turned his mug around in his hands. “Ignoring stuff isn't gonna help you.”

“And talking about it will? Doesn't change what I did.”

“All I'm saying is I can tell the difference between someone running towards something, and someone running away from it.” Sam stated. “You can’t keep blaming yourself - Don’t give me that look, I know you do it all the time, going around like a big sad golden retriever all the time.”

“I do not look like a-” Steve rubbed the back of his neck. “It's not blaming myself if it's true.”

Sam paused, opened his mouth, and closed it again. Steve knew what the words on his tongue were, they've had this conversation so many times he knows it by heart. _It was an accident. It's not your fault. Bucky wouldn't want you to beat yourself up._

There seemed to be no end to everyone’s opinions over what Bucky would or wouldn't have wanted. 

Considering what Steve did to him, he probably would have wanted a better friend. 

Sam leaned against the counter. “Talk to me, you barely talk about what happened.”

“I need action, not talk.”

“Right. Action meaning what we’ve been doing for the last five years.” Sam’s mouth twisted. “Taking every money job we can get. Dirty work for scum like Hammer and Pierce.”

Steve pressed his lips together. “I never wanted to force-”

“You aren't. I’d follow you anywhere, man. Nat, too.” Sam shook his head tiredly. “We're just worried.”

“Then trust me on this.” Steve said, feeling more like he was trying to convince himself. “I’m fine.”

Sam sighed and finished off the last of his coffee. “I’ve always got your back, Steve. We all do.” Sam turned to leave the kitchen, but stopped in the doorway to look over his shoulder. “But you can’t keep doing this lone wolf thing forever. You’re gonna have to face up to yourself eventually. Just hope you know that.” His footsteps receded, and Steve heard the sound of a door shutting firmly.

None of them had asked for this. Sam blamed himself too, for not being around on that day. But he’d stuck with Steve through the worst of it, providing a steady presence in those dark days immediately following the Incident. He'd let Steve stay at his place all this while though surely he had to be fed up with Steve’s drama by now.

_No more. Just one last inception, and I'm done._

Steve set his mug down in the sink and returned to his room.

The garbage truck had moved on and now the street was completely silent. Stark’s watch was sitting on his desk where he had placed it the other day. He picked it up - the watch sat heavy in his hand, and was so finely made that the mechanism didn't even make a sound as the hands ticked the seconds away.

 _I wonder if_ _Stark missed his watch yet… unlikely, he probably has a hundred more._ Steve’s only chance to return it would be the day of the mission. It wasn't like their paths would ever cross otherwise.

It felt absurd, trying to reconcile Tony, the cocky tycoon who designed weapons of mass destruction, with Tony, the broken man who gave out free college tuition like party favors and whose eyes were so irreparably sad. The two personalities seemed like completely different men.

Steve felt tired in a way that had nothing to do with lack of sleep. It was an inception which had got him into this mess, and the only way out was to perform another inception.

A wave of uncertainty hit him. Was it worth it, to destroy another man's mind for the chance to fix his mistake?

Unable to fall asleep, Steve stared at the ceiling, waiting for the sun to come up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was thinking about splitting this into 2 chapters but decided nah I'd better get to the point. Dream stuff happens in the next chapter!
> 
> I’ll try to post the next one before Infinity War comes out but I’m not too worried if I can’t because I don't forsee any huge changes in canon that will derail my fic (what’s the worst they can do? kill someone? like that’s stopped anyone writing stuff) 
> 
> If not, enjoy the extra long chapter!
> 
> I'm on [tumblr](http://peppypear.tumblr.com/)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big thank you to [OftheLilies](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ofthelilies) for beta reading!

Barely three days later, the call came.

“This is it, people. We gotta go.” Sam tossed his phone on the couch and immediately began grabbing equipment.

“It’s the middle of the night,” Scott lifted his head from where it rested on a stack of documents. “And the mission isn’t for another few weeks. What happened?”

“Change of plans. Stark just collapsed, they’re headed to the hospital as we speak.” Sam informed him, doing a final round of checks on the PASIV. “Once we get there, it’s showtime.”

Scott sprang off the couch to help with the packing, while Wanda and Natasha ran through their notes on building schematics and strategy. By the time Steve and Sam started moving the cases of equipment into the car, it had started to snow lightly.

Last-minute changes were nothing new in their line of work, Steve told himself, keeping a composed face over his jangling nerves. It was just the… personal nature of this particular job that had him on edge.

They were pulling into the hospital when Steve realized that in their haste to leave, he'd left the watch behind. Too late. Another of those things that couldn't be helped.

Shuri was waiting for them in the operating theatre next to an unconscious Stark on a gurney. The dark haired man looked even more sickly than the night Steve bumped into him at the college. The dark circles and lines on his face looked even more prominent above the oxygen mask and the heart monitor was beeping out a worryingly slow pulse.

“Cardiac arrest. I’ve stabilized him for now. Which was tough, even for me.” Shuri said crisply. “Also, did you know that he’s dying?”

She whipped out an X-ray printout and waved it in front of their astonished faces. “There’s foreign shrapnel in the chest cavity - looks like he’s had it there for years - and it’s leeching poison into his bloodstream.”

“Can you save him?”

“Come on, it’s me. Of course I can,” Shuri’s light tone quickly turned serious. “But nobody knows how safe it is to infiltrate a mind when the body's dying…”

Steve raised an arm to stop her. “Hold on, you said he’s dying?” That changed everything. “Why can't we wait until he's more stable?”

“We might not have a choice,” Natasha was standing next to the gurney, her quiet voice slowly morphing into one horrified self-realization. “When I was working in SI-Legal, I had a look at his will; ULTRON is set to go on the market two weeks from now. But if he dies before then, ULTRON is to be released automatically on the internet, for free.” Her leather-gloved hands clenched on the handrail of the gurney. “Stark is the only one who can overturn it.”

“That's correct, Ms Romanoff.” T’Challa was standing in the doorway of the operating theatre, looking unfairly alert and put together for someone dragged out of bed in the middle of the night. “This is our only opening. If we don’t act now, it will be too late.”

“Can't you just hide the news that he died?” Scott asked.

T’Challa’s eyes flashed. “You're asking my sister to cover up a death, never mind it's the death of one of the most prominent businessmen in the world? Are you out of your mind?”

“Sorry, I was just asking! When you say it like that it sounds awful!” Scott held up his hands.

Shuri was frowning slightly. “Dream tech is a fuzzy science, but as a medical professional, it’s my responsibility to make you guys aware of any and all risks.” She tapped on her tablet and a series of charts popped up on the screen. “I had to restart his heart three times already, and if he goes under again... I don’t know what type of effect that could have on you.”

“This wasn’t part of our deal.” Steve gritted out. “You're asking me to put my people in danger.”

“I am well aware. And of course, I can’t force you to do anything you don’t want to.” T’Challa put a reassuring hand on his sister’s shoulder. Then his face hardened, crystallizing into a determined mask. “But know this, if you walk away now then our deal regarding the rehabilitation of one James Buchanan Barnes - is off the table.”

Steve felt his hackles rise at the mention of Bucky’s full name, and in that moment he was truly angry at T’Challa for backing him into a corner with such a calculated move.

“What should we do, Steve?” Sam stepped up to him, voice low and carefully even. “Team’s waiting on you.”

Surrounded by his team members, he could catch every emotion that flashed across their faces - determination, watchfulness, fear - and that was what snapped the actuality of the situation into dizzyingly sharp focus.

He _shouldn’t_ put them at risk, he _shouldn't_ plant an idea into the mind of an innocent man. He _should_ turn around and leave this perilous mission far, far behind.

Away from the thing he knew was waiting for him in the dream world.

And yet… this was his last hope at making things right. There was no other choice but to face it.

Sending up a silent prayer to any deity that could hear him, Steve made his decision.

“I knew the risks going in,” Steve squared his jaw. “If anyone wants to step out, now’s your last chance.”

Not one person moved.

With a grim sort of pride, Steve nodded. “Shuri, take us in, please.”

“Of course.” Shuri nudged T’Challa with her elbow. “I can’t believe you’re actually joining this crazy mission too. Baba always said you were too hotheaded.”

T’Challa gave her shoulder a squeeze. “He’d understand. I wouldn’t ask a subject to do anything I wouldn't be willing to do myself.”

“We’re not actually your subjects... “ Scott muttered.

Shuri grinned at Steve, regaining some of her earlier aplomb. “Make sure my brother doesn’t do anything stupid.”

“Of course.” Steve nodded.

T’Challa rolled his eyes. “Years around you, dear sister, have immunized me against all types of nonsense.”

“Hah! I wouldn’t be too sure about that.” And with a laugh that was only slightly edged with worry, Shuri launched herself at T’Challa, pulling him into a fierce hug which he returned just as strongly. It was a sweet moment which made even Wanda’s normally-stern expression curve into smile.

Natasha touched his arm. “Steve, we're ready.”

\--

 _Going under always feels disorienting._ _A flutter in his stomach and the biting taste of somnacin at the back of his throat. Every light in the room gets brighter, like someone turning up the image settings. The brief thrill of danger as the physical world fades into white - and then Steve can’t feel anything, not the press of the pillow beneath his head or the sting of the needle in his arm. He's formless and floating, like he's made of pure light._

_Steve never feels more awake than when he's dreaming._

_The blinding light starts to dim, resolving into a place._

Downtown DC.

At a cursory glance, it appears to be a perfect replica of the city. On closer inspection, buildings from every culture and country, new and old, are scattered amid the endless rows of skyscrapers; scarlet torii gates, Gothic cathedrals, domes studded by solar panels and terraces walled with lush greenery.

Gleaming in the afternoon sun, the city manages to be both futuristic and classic - they could be anywhere, any time in the world.

“Very nice work.” Steve says to Wanda. They’re both standing on the polished marble steps of a city library.

“Thanks, I wanted to have fun and not just make a Generic McCitysville.” Wanda tilts her head to give him an appraising look. “Hm.”

“Yes?”

“It’s weird seeing you without a beard.”

“Is it?” Steve rubs at his now clean-shaven chin. His hair is shorter and spikier, with a lot more blond in it - the way it always is whenever he dreamwalks. “Did I look that terrible before?”

“It ages you,” Wanda tries to hide a smile but it bursts from her in a giggle, her mood seemingly lifted by the shining surroundings. “And you behave like such an old man that I keep forgetting you're only, what, five, six years older than me?”

“That bad, huh?” Steve mutters.

“Just saying,” Wanda shrugs with a grin. “This is a good look, you should stick with it.”

“That reminds me, I forgot to tell you that your appearance within the dream reflects how you see yourself.”

He gestures down at the blue combat suit he's wearing. He supposes a newbie like Wanda wouldn’t be able to tell, but the outfit is several years out of date - five, to be exact. “Your physical appearance reverts to a time in your life where you experienced a big change; something like moving house, or a loss, or...”

Wanda looks down herself; she’s in a red bomber jacket and her hair is a lighter shade; honey blonde and wavy. The image jogs something in Steve’s memory and he tries to recall where he’d seen it before… A photo of Wanda, laughing, arm wrapped around the young man with silver hair, the wistful way she had watched T’Challa and Shuri... _Oh._

“I’m sorry about your brother, Wanda.” Steve says.

Wanda blinks, then gives him a terse nod. “Thank you.” She stares determinedly at her feet but Steve can catch a flash of brightness in her eyes.

They both look up in time to see Scott pulling up in a van, Natasha and T'Challa in tow. All of them are wearing animal masks to hide their faces.

Natasha tosses something red at him: a cheap Halloween mask emblazoned with a grinning skull. Steve looks at her incredulously. “This is your idea of stealthy?”

“You all need disguises.” Natasha shrugs dismissively. “None of you can alter your faces, so this'll have to do.”

Steve huffs a sigh and puts on the ugly thing.

He picks up the communicator as they pull away from the curb. “How are things looking up there, Sam?”

“All clear for the moment,” Sam’s winged form swoops down the avenue of skyscrapers, briefly casting a shadow over their car. The winged jetpack is Sam’s equipment of choice for dream walking, letting him scope out the lay of the land. “I've already located Stark. He's headed out of an office five blocks from here.”

They pluck Stark off the street easily.

Steve can see the exact moment Stark realises it’s a kidnapping, because the dark-haired man springs into action before Steve can get close, throwing a hard right hook towards Steve’s nose. Simple enough to counter; Steve catches the punch easily and drags Stark forward by the fist, using the momentum to throw off Stark’s centre of gravity. He feints a palm strike, and when Stark shies away, traps the shorter man in a rear headlock.

A cursing Stark claws for his eyes, fighting him all the way like an angry cat. Stark is no pushover - Steve will give him that - but Steve has the advantage in sheer size and power.

Still, it's not easy to restrain the struggling man, and stars flash in his vision when Stark clocks him in the jaw with a lucky punch. Grunting in pain, Steve reinforces his grip on the other man, careful to use his strength only to incapacitate instead of injure.

Swiftly as he can - all the while trying to avoid the fingers stabbing at his eyeballs - Steve wrestles Stark into the van where a waiting Natasha jabs a needle into his neck. The sedative kicks in within a few seconds and he goes limp in Steve’s hold, eyes fluttering shut.

Natasha dusts off her hands matter-of-factly once settle Stark in the back seat. “That's phase one down. Now we just have to get to the next point.”

“There.” Wanda points to something shining in the distance: a slender bridge which curves over the river. Delicate tendrils of steel twine above and around the roadway, encasing it in a spiralling double helix pattern. “That’s our way out of the city. We should-”

Wanda yelps as a bullet crunches into her window.

“Incoming!” Sam’s frantic voice blares over the comm. “Guys, we have company!”

The formerly empty streets were now lined by ranks of armored robots. Shaped like a heavyset human, each robot was at least eight feet high, clad in dark grey armor and bristling with guns. The only thing more intimidating than those shoulder-mounted cannons were the faces; every faceplate was engraved with the same sinister expression, cold blue lights glinting out from the slanted eye sockets.

“Projections. He’s had dream security training.” Steve says grimly. “Top level too, judging by the quality of armor and weaponry.”

The show of force was truly impressive - he’d never seen such a well-equipped task force on any other mission.

The ground shudders beneath them - the sound of a hundred iron-shod feet marching on the van.

Getting louder. Getting faster.

“You guys better hold on,” Scott floors the gas and their van tears away from the advancing horde.

They'd barely entered in the dream and the place was quickly turning like a war zone; Sam provides cover fire, concentrating his efforts on harrying the crowd, dodging the deadly rain of bullets with almost superhuman agility.

Bracing herself against the seats, Natasha leans out the shattered window with a rifle, picking off any projection that gets too close. It’s a heart-stopping chase to stay ahead of the projections - every projection she shoots down is replaced by three more.

“We can’t lose them!” Scott screams as their last side mirror explodes.

The van tears through the streets, weaving through any obstacles in their path and steamrolling a few that are. Scott’s wild driving flings the occupants of the van around; Steve hisses as a particularly sharp turn bashes the back of his head against the car roof.

“Some of us are still in here, Scott!” Wanda yells, wedging herself into the seat as deep as she can. “Where did you learn to drive?”

“Hang on guys, we’re almost at the bridge! Just a few blocks left!” Scott cries, and sure enough the helix bridge rises into view as their little van races towards the edge of the city.

“We're almost outta he-”

There's a long, low blast of sound, like the blare of a ship’s horn, followed by a rising rumble that seems to vibrate every molecule of air. The noise prickles the hair at the back of Steve’s neck and sends a bubble of dread into his throat.

_Oh no, not now..._

A storm-grey freight train hurtles across the junction just in front of them, moving so fast it shatters the windows of every building within the block. Old, tarnished, and inexplicably covered with frost, it dwarfs the size of a normal train - the whole carriage stretches several city blocks long, and is so wide that it shears away all the street-facing shop fronts while churning the sidewalk to gravel.

Frantic, Scott throws everything he can on the wheel, barely managing to swerve the van out of the train’s way. They screech to a halt a few bare yards from the path of destruction.

Several other projections aren’t so lucky; unable to stop in time, their clunky metal bodies are pulverized beneath the crushing wheels.

After what seems like an eternity, the enormous train grinds to a stop. Its hulking metal body lies in the crossbar of the junction like a corpse of some massive beast, cutting off their only exit.

The next thing Steve notices is the sharp drop in temperature. Their van is parked so close that he can see where every joint of the train is edged with ice, as if it were dredged out of a frozen river. Thick waves of fog start to billow off the carriage, washing over their van and plunging the entire city block into a bitter, oppressive cold.

Despite the cold, Steve feels sweat break out behind his neck. He can barely see ten feet into the fog, but he knows, deep in his bones what’s coming next.

“Guys, are you ok?” Sam voice crackles through the comm. He must be frantic, circling above them unable to help. “Can't see a thing through this smog. God, this train has to be at least fifty feet high…”

“What's a train even doing in the middle of my city? I didn't design any metro systems,” Wanda demands, flipping through her drawings agitatedly. “And I double, triple checked all my plans.”

T’Challa is gazing out into the hazy street. “We’re not alone,” His breath puffs out in clouds against the frost-streaked window. And then Steve hears it too; a rumble in the ground, too consistent to be thunder.

The wall of smog at end of the street darkens, and then the iron legion bursts through the fog, heavy bootsteps echoing off the buildings as they advance on the van.

They're trapped.

A panicky Scott squeaks. “It's a dead end! That train took out the whole block. Oh god this is bad, we are so dead...”

Ignoring him, Steve leans over the row of seats. “Is there another way out of here?” He asks Wanda, forcing himself to keep his voice steady.

“There are several other exits, but we can't get to them with all these projections in the way…” Wanda scans her surroundings, quickly weighing up her options. “Let me try something.”

Shutting her eyes, she holds out her hands, palms-up as if in prayer.

A red glow suffuses Wanda's hands and she draws a long breath, curling her fingers into claws.

And the circle of road beneath the van _twists_ , rising into the air like a strand of melted taffy, lifting them high into the air. Scott squawks in alarm to see the ground suddenly fall away.

The van keeps rising higher, above the projections, above the the train, higher and higher until they break through the fog and into the sunlight, eye-level with where Sam is hovering. He gives them a wave through the cracked windscreen.

Balanced on the small circle of land, Steve can see the entire expanse of the city laid out before him; how the fog sweeps through every street and avenue like a grey wave, swirling around the skyscrapers and blanketing many of the smaller buildings.

_Wait._

There's movement from one of the rooftops. Steve catches a glimpse of a figure, shadowy and long-haired, a sniper rifle held in hand. It’s too distant to make out any facial features, but there’s a certain set to the stance that he recognizes all too well.

Then… a glint where the sun reflects off the lenses of a ski mask and Steve knows with a chill that they’ve been seen.

Steve's fingers tighten on the armrest. “Wanda, hurry.”

Eyes still shut, Wanda sways her arms like she's conducting an invisible orchestra and the string-taffy road bearing their van starts to bend. Ever so smoothly, the road curves over the train, depositing the van gently at the edge of the bridge.

Scott doesn't waste a moment, stamping down on the gas to put distance between them and the city. Wanda slumps down into her seat, breathing heavily at the exertion.

Sam whoops as they merge onto the freeway, diving down to cruise alongside the car. “Nice work, kid!”

Steve nods at her with proud smile. “You've been holding back on us.” Away from the train and the man on the roof, the unnatural cold starts to ebb away. He can start to breathe easier now.

“Creating buildings isn't all I can do - I can move things with my mind.” Wanda looks drained but her eyes are dancing. “It's pure creation… I've never felt anything like it.”

“That it is.”

Scott twists over his shoulder, a harried look on his face. “Guys, you might not want to celebrate just yet.”

A fresh round of gunfire assaults their bullet-riddled van as a fleet of gunmetal-grey armoured vehicles begin to approach. No amount of veering and dodging can shake them and slowly, relentlessly, the projections narrow the distance. A spray of bullets zing through the back window, shredding the back row of the seats.

“There are too many!” Scott clutches the wheel in desperation as the first armored car draws near. “If we don't shake them, they'll follow us to the first point.”

Wanda looks stricken. “I'm sorry! I used up most of my energy moving us out of the city.”

“I've got this,” With a twist of his wings, Sam flips around midair, shooting backwards and towards the armored cars. But instead of charging them head on, he veers to the side, diving under the freeway in a wide arc to land nimbly on the riverbank.

With an experienced eye, Sam scrutinizes the exposed structural concrete beams that hold the freeway above the water, mentally gauging the speed of the armored cars. “I’m going to give you guys an opening - Tell Scott to maintain his speed. Don’t slow down even for a second. Or else.”

“Or else what? Sam, what are you doing?” Scott looks around wildly. “Sam!”

“What my mom always told me to: dream big,” Sam reaches into that creative place inside him, focusing on summoning a weapon, and almost immediately a rocket launcher materializes at his feet. He hauls it up in his arms, taking aim at the concrete support beams. “Ready in three… two… one…”

He fires.

The structural pillars explode in a spray of concrete and steel. A resounding crack rips the air as the shockwave tears the freeway in two, obliterating the stretch of road and the first two ranks of armored cars. The explosion opens up a chasm separating Steve’s team from the remaining projections - the ones that don’t brake in time go plummeting into the river alongside the debris.

Unpursued, Scott races away from the wreckage.

Sam dodges the falling rubble and leaps into the air, soaring after the van.

\--

“Are you ready? Stark’s going to be waking up soon.” Steve asks Natasha.

They were in the main floor of an abandoned warehouse, sunlight pouring in through the tall windows. They’d stashed the sedated Stark in a small side office and cuffed him to a rusty pipe.

Natasha was in disguise already; her petite figure replaced with the burly form of Obadiah Stane.

“Just wait till you see my new bag of tricks. I’ve picked up a few things since I left you guys. ” Natasha stands up - towering slightly over Steve, Stane is a _big_ man - and smirks broadly, spreading her arms wide to show off her disguise. “What do you think?”

“Sure fooled me.” Steve smiles wryly. “It’s good to know at least one part of our plan will go right.”

Natasha’s smirk fades. “Wanda feels bad, you know. She thinks the train showed up because she botched the design of the city.”

“What? No, that’s not her fault, I'd better talk to her...” Steve heads for the door but Natasha’s chilly tone freezes him in his tracks.

“I know it's not her fault. That's what I wanted to talk to _you_ about.” Her face softens to the concerned expression few people had the privilege of seeing. “What the hell, Steve? I thought you said things were under control…”

“Why wouldn’t they be?”

“Cut the crap, Rogers, I know when people aren’t being honest with me.” She crosses her arms. “Sam tells me that train was twice the size it used to be! That sounds like a problem to me.”

“Maybe, but it’s not your problem.” Steve makes a show of fiddling with the PASIV, hoping it would throw her off.

It doesn't. She's far too astute for that.

“Um. It’s kind of all our problems if honking big freight trains are showing up every time you enter a dream.” Natasha plants herself squarely in front of Steve. The sun glances off Stane’s shiny bald head in a way that makes it hard to look at her for too long. “That has to mean it’s getting worse - you can't just go on keeping it all inside.”

Steve twists a knob on the PASIV. “I'll talk to Wanda. She shouldn't be so hard on herself.”

“And now you're deflecting.” Natasha shakes her head. “Fine, don't want to talk about your repressed…”

Steve frowns. “Hey.”

“…stunted set of emotional baggage? Then answer me this,” Natasha smacks his hands away from the PASIV and slams the case shut. “You've been acting off ever since we took this job.”

Steve pulls his hands away to avoid getting his fingers pinched. “Nothing gets by you, does it?”

“It's my job to notice these things,” Natasha regards him skeptically. “And if you don’t want to tell me why, fine… I just want to know if this is going to give us trouble later on.”

Steve hesitates. “The day I met Wanda, I also ran into Stark. He was at the college for some event.”

Natasha grimaces, an effect greatly enhanced by Stane’s beady eyes. “You met him before this? That's not good. If he recognizes your face, that could throw off all our calculations.”

“I doubt he’ll remember. He seemed out of it when I met him.” Steve feels a twinge of unease. At the time he had thought Stark was drunk or high, but what if it was as Shuri said, that he was dying…?

“Well, what did you guys talk about?”

“More like what didn't he talk about; our conversation was pretty one-sided,” The memory of his words from that night makes him wince; how he had treated the man like a random crazy person, offering fumbling platitudes that sounded so clumsy now. “He was in a bad place so I talked him down…”

“That’s already way too much contact. Christ, Steve, why not give him your number and keys as well?” Natasha’s face shifts from mildly annoyed to extremely annoyed. “You should’ve brought this up before! Now the entire mission might be compromised.”

“I wasn't thinking about the mission! I was- I was more worried that he'd do something to himself...” It was too reminiscent of what had happened with Bucky. “I couldn’t leave another pers- I couldn't just leave him like that.”

The look Natasha gives him is equal parts exasperated and pitying. “I don’t think he’s the kind of guy you save, he's the kind you stop. You saw my report: Stark’s a textbook case of narcissism.”

“I don't know.” The uncertainty that had plagued Steve since that night floats back. “You ever think you made the wrong call?”

Natasha goes very still. “Do I tell you how to do your job?” Her voice is pleasantly conversational.

“No, of course not,” Steve says hastily.

“Need I remind you that we’re not in the business of making friends, least of all with targets.” Natasha sighs, irritation dissolving at his words.

“I just… maybe there’s more to him than we thought.”

“Ah.” Natasha nods slowly. “That twinge you’re feeling? It’s called empathy. Inconvenient little thing, but I guess it’s understandable - I know it can sneak up on you. Trust me.”

He supposes he should. Out of all of them, Natasha is probably the only one who understands the best how it’s like to lose yourself in a mask.

“You don’t need to worry about me being compromised.” Steve leans against the wall. There’s too much riding on this mission for him to just… let his feelings run away with him.

Right?

Shaking her head, Natasha starts rolling her shirtsleeves up over Stane’s huge arms. “Anyway, what's done is done. I suppose you did what you thought was right.” She messes up her tie and rumples up Stane’s clothes. “The possibility of Stark recognizing you won't torpedo our plans, but it could throw a wrench into them.”

She jerks her thumb to where his discarded mask sits in the corner. “So remember to wear your mask when you interrogate him.”

“That skull face is creepy.” Steve grumbles. Playing the role has never sat right with him. Wearing the mask and interrogating a target always felt like a role that belonged to someone else.

“That’s the point. It's called interrogate, not in-having-fun-gate.” She steps up to Steve and taps a spot on her cheek. “Now, I was gonna get Sam to help with this part, but since that anything that goes wrong from this point on is probably your fault - how about you do the honors?”

\--

Stark goes taut in horror when Steve shoves a handcuffed Natasha through the door. In her Stane-disguise, she’s pretending to be delirious with pain, sporting a bruised face and a bloody nose (“Don't be such a chicken, Steve, this won’t work if you don’t make it look good.”).

Steve roughly cuffs Natasha to the pipe next to Stark then leaves swiftly, slamming the door behind him. There’s a one-way mirror panel just next to the cell, where they can all observe her.

“Obie! What did they do?” Stark pulls himself towards Natasha as far his his bonds will let him. “God, they really did a number on you.”

“Those…those _hooligans_ have been at me for days.” Natasha’s imitation of Stane’s voice is flawless, punctuating every word with a groan or pained croak. It's very convincing, and Steve can almost believe she really is an old man beaten to an inch of his life. “I don’t know how much more I can take.”

The faked injuries certainly have an effect on Stark. The sight of his godfather battered and bloody clearly rattles him, but he buries it under a forced geniality. “Cheer up, Obie, this isn’t the worst pickle we've been in. Sunset Boulevard '96, remember that?” Stark’s mouth curls into his trademark smirk, expecting Stane to be familiar with this anecdote.

“Ah… oh yes, you were a sorry sight in that cell. Lucky I was able to get you out.” For a whole second, Natasha blanks on her response. And that was odd, usually she never missed a thing in her research.

“What are you talking about? I had to bail both of us out.” Stark looks at Stane strangely, zeroing in on her lapse with razor precision. “Wait a minute, something’s not right here…”

Steve can see the cogs behind Stark’s eyes starting to whirr and for a long terrifying moment he wonders if Stark has seen through their charade.

“My boy…” Natasha must sense that things are starting to go off the rails, because she reaches out Stane’s big paw of a hand to clamp firmly onto Stark’s shoulder.

Stark’s face twitches at the contact but he doesn't flinch from Stane’s invasion into his personal space. It has the intended effect; he drops the matter, face going subdued and closed-off.

“Why are they doing this? What do they want from me?” Stark asks softly.

“The Stark family inheritance, of course! Wasn’t there something your dad wanted you to have? Didn’t his will mention some kind of asset that would pass to you?” Stane wheedles. “As his only child, he'd be so proud for you to carry on his legacy.”

“My dad?” Stark scoffs disdainfully. “We talking about the same guy? The happiest day of his life was when he shipped me off to boarding school.” He stares very hard at the stained wall directly in front of him as if he can burn a hole in it with his gaze.

“I'm sure he loved you, in his own way…deep down…”

“Not as much as he loved his legacy.” Stark leans against the pipe, letting his head drop back against the rusted surface. “Nothing could make him stop talking about it. The old man wanted to live forever, if he could.”

Stark’s face darkens and his voice becomes tight. “Scratch that, let me rephrase; There’s nothing he loved more than the bottom of a bottle.”

Stane bumbles for an answer. “Well… All great men have their foibles, surely you understand…”

A bitter laugh bursts from Stark’s lips. “What good did all that greatness do Mom? She wasn’t even supposed to be in the car that day,” He squeezes his eyes shut. “She only went along because she was worried about him, as usual. Selfish bastard…”

“We’ve been here for days… I don't know how much longer we can hold out...” Stane groans theatrically.

Stark’s brow furrows in suspicion. “ ‘We?’...what do you mean “we”? Who else is here with you…?”

A woman’s tortured scream pierces through the walls. Steve tenses in shock, before realizing it had come from Natasha. Her face was impassive, fully focused on playing the role of Stane, but it was her voice too that came from outside the room, that of a terrified woman who begged and screamed against invisible captors.

 _Ventriloquizing,_ Steve realises. The last time they'd worked together Natasha hadn't quite mastered the technique of throwing her voice like that. Now, it was proving to be very effective.

“Pepper.” The screams would have shaken anyone's composure but a deadly calm settles over Stark, even as his face drains of all color. “I have to get out of here now.”

“They couldn’t get through to me so they started on Pepper. Poor woman, they’ve been torturing her for days…” Natasha-as-Stane laments. “You’ve got to give them what they want or they won’t stop…”

“Thanks, but no thanks. I don’t play by anyone’s rules but mine.” Stark slaps his pockets, but upon finding nothing, starts examining the mechanism of the cuffs, giving them an experimental tug. “Check your pockets, Obie. If you have something sharp on you, I can get us out of these handcuffs. Give me a tie pin, or a paperclip. Even a pen will do.”

“They took all my belongings,” Stane says unhelpfully, but Steve catches Natasha quickly palming her tie clip.

Natasha throws Steve an impatient look through the concealed one-way mirror and that's his signal to enter. Time to head things off at the gate in case Stark actually _does_ find a way out of his restraints. Slipping the skull mask over his face, Steve enters the room to enact the next part of the plan.

His appearance makes Stark’s jaw drop. Steve supposes he must cut an unsettling figure; above the high collar of his tac suit, the Red Skull mask covers him scalp to chin, hiding every trace of the human underneath.

“Nice face, Skeletor.” Stark raises an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed by the mask.

“You.” Steve ignores him. “We couldn’t get the woman to talk, but something tells me you will.”

“Is that your sick idea of leverage?” Stark glares him down unflinchingly, every muscle in his body screaming defiance. “Because if you've hurt Pepper I swear I can make your life look a whole lot worse than that ugly mug of yours…”

Steve aims the gun at Stark. He had no intention of shooting, of course, but Stark didn’t need to know that. “You have ten seconds to give us the code.”

“Excuse me?” Stark blinks.

“Don't act dumb. We want the five-digit code Howard Stark gave you that opens the family vault. Now.”

Of course, no such code existed - it was all part of the gambit Natasha and Bucky had concocted years ago. _It's your classic white bear problem with some old-fashioned good cop-bad cop_ , Bucky had called it. _Ironic monitoring, get the target to create their own safe, then give you the key to it._

For a split second, confusion blooms wide on Stark’s face before being swept under an insolent sneer. “Why should I give you anything?”

“Do as he says,” Stane wheezes out. “We have no choice.”

“What? No!” Stark turns to Stane sharply. “Seriously, Obie? You actually wanna play ball with Jack Skellington over there?”

Steve cocks the gun. “Ten, nine…”

“Whoa, whoa, hold up.” The click of the gun spurs Stark into action and he schools his expression into something reasonable. “Why don’t we all calm down and try work something out.” He doesn't even break a sweat at shifting gears into businessman mode, cannily trying to move things to a playing field he knows. “What do you want, Bones? Money? New tech? Plastic surgery for that unfortunate countenance of yours?”

“Seven… six… ” Steve presses on, trying his best to ignore the chatter. It’s distracting, the way Stark throws so many words around. _Focus._

His blatant lack of interest cracks something loose in Stark’s attempt at pragmatism.

“You think I’m scared of torture?” Stark spits out. Something desperate and haunted flashes through his brown eyes, only to be instantly replaced by fury. “Unless you’re gonna back up your little threats, this... _this is nothing_.” His lips peel back in a brazen smirk. “Do your worst, Kingdom of the Crystal Skull.”

Beneath the mask, Steve’s cheeks burn with frustration - they hadn’t expected Stark to be this stubborn; most people would have given in immediately at the sight of the gun, not make the leap to taunting and bargaining. Time to try a different tactic.

“So. Big man, are you? Not afraid of pain. But how about your friend, Pepper?” Steve shakes the gun towards the open doorway for dramatic effect. “Give us the code or she gets a bullet to her pretty head.”

Stark’s eyes widen in horror and all aggression bleeds out of him like sand from an hourglass. “Leave her out of this.”

“Five… four… ”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about! I couldn't tell you a code even if I wanted to.” Stark appeals to Stane but Natasha remains unhelpfully silent. His eyes widen imploringly when he looks up Steve. “Look, I’m trying to work with you here, but you gotta ask me for something that isn’t made up.”

“Three…” Steve feels sweat beading on the back of his collar. Shit, this could go south really fast.

“Come on, don’t hurt her! Take me instead,” Stark’s begging now, struggling at his bonds so fiercely Steve’s afraid he'll slice his arm open or dislocate a shoulder. “I'll do anything. Please... “

The sight makes him wince internally, and he wonders if they’d pushed Stark a bit too far. If he were truly a narcissist, surely he would have jumped at the chance to throw Pepper under the bus and save his own ass.

So why wasn’t he caving?

“I don’t want anything,” Steve whispers. “Just the code.”

The intensity of the moment charges the air between them and Steve can’t help how his body has started to angle closer, looming over the other man. They’re barely three feet apart, so close that he can see every cut, smudge, and scrape on Stark’s face.

“Two…”

The gun hovers a dangerous few inches from Stark’s face but he seems unaware of it; his eyes are locked entreatingly on Steve’s as if trying to pierce through the dehumanizing mask he’s wearing.

“One…”

They’re close, far too close now; it's impossible not to notice how Stark’s pupils are fully dilated against the brown irises, and the way a bead of sweat traces a line from temple to cheekbone. There’s a purplish bruise forming beneath one eye and a crimson scratch on the edge of his jaw - had he been jostled that badly in the turbulent ride through the city? Stark’s chest is beginning to heave as his breaths pant through slightly parted lips, in and out, faster and faster…

Stark blinks, and the tip of his tongue darts out to wet his lips. “Please…”

Steve’s own eyes are starting to water from the intensity, and he hopes Stark can’t see how his grip on the gun is starting to shake. _Just give me five numbers, any numbers. Please, say something, don’t make me go to zero._

Steve licks his suddenly-dry lips. “The numbers, Stark. Last chance.”

Pepper’s scream rings out again.

“ALRIGHT! Alright, I’ll give you your damn code! For god’s sake don’t hurt her, please. _Please_.” beaten, Stark's head drops in submission. His breath gasps in and out like he’s run a marathon. “I-I don't know, 6… 2 - 4 - 7 - 2… that's- thats all I got…”

With that, Steve storms out of the office to join the others in the observation room. He drops the gun in the case like its a poisonous thing, rips the mask off his face, and tosses it in a corner.

His breath is coming fast and heavy, like he’s run a marathon. They got what they came for; getting a numerical code from the target is their success indicator for this leg of the mission, but he feels empty and vaguely sick - nothing at all like a winner. The fallen skull face grins back at him mockingly.

Wary of his foul mood, the others hang back but T’Challa has no such compunctions. “What’s the significance of the numbers?”

Steve shakes his head. “There isn’t any - the code doesn’t even exist, so the individual numbers don't matter. The whole point is to trick the subconscious into generating a pattern. In this case, a pattern of numbers.”

“Ah. I’ve heard of this. You’re referring to ironic monitoring?” T’Challa inquires.

“Sort of. If the subconscious focuses on a pattern, its defences become easier to predict. Let's say…” Steve raises his eyes to the ceiling, trying to come up with a better illustration. “Let’s say I tell you ‘don’t think of white bears’. What’s the first thing that pops into your head?”

T’Challa chuckles. “White bears. I see your point now.”

Natasha’s voice rings out from the interrogation room. “Everyone back inside, we have a problem.”

Stark is pressed against the pipe, hanging limply from the cuffs as his breaths pant in and out shallowly. With his half-closed eyes showing only a slice of white, he looks on the verge of passing out.

In an instant Steve is striding over to them. “What happened? He was fine a moment ago.”

“Just passed out. Shuri did say we could be in for a bumpy ride.” Natasha is already out of her cuffs and bent over Stark’s prone form to check him over. “Relax, his vitals are fine, nothing more somnacin can’t fix.” She looks up and snaps her fingers. “Scott, if you please.”

A trembling Scott hands over a syringe and Natasha jabs it into Stark’s arm.

“There you go, now go back to sleep.” She pats Stark on the cheek as he slumps against the wall. She clambers to her feet, peeling off Stane’s oversized shirt from the tactical suit she’d been wearing underneath. “Bozhe moi, that took ages, I thought he’d never shut up.”

Steve crouches down next to Stark, feeling slightly annoyed by her levity. Just because Stark was a huge asshole was no reason to treat him so disrespectfully when he couldn’t defend himself.

When he uncuffs Stark’s hands from the pipe, the wrists come away raw and bloody; he'd shredded the skin in his desperate attempt to save “Pepper”. Feeling a stab of guilt, Steve lowers the unconscious man to the ground and starts bandaging the torn skin in a roll of gauze.

“Is he gonna be okay?” Wanda asks, eyeing the blood with trepidation.

Something isn't right. Steve tilts Stark’s head back and presses his fingers against the carotid artery in his neck.

There's no answering thrum of a pulse. A shot of ice runs up his spine. “Natasha…”

“Now that we got what we need,” Natasha continues, not hearing him. “Next order of business is-”

“Natasha!” Steve shouts, and the room goes quiet. “He’s not breathing.”

In the ringing silence that follows, Steve can practically hear what everyone is thinking. _Bad. very, very bad._

Wanda’s hands are pressed to her mouth. “What do we d-?”

Darkness blankets everything, as if every light in the building were blown out. But that can't be right; all the windows were open to let in the sunlight, and he should at least hear the sigh of the air or dripping of a distant pipe…

The absence of sensory input is so absolute, it's like someone cut away the vision from his eyes, leaving behind a gaping endless void.

_Steve opens his mouth but no sound comes out._

_He can't speak. He can't feel the ground under his knees. He can't move. He doesn't know if he's even breathing._

_He’s a disembodied bundle of thoughts trapped in a claustrophobic nothingness that nullifies every sense he has. The sensation is not unlike the transitional moments before entering into a dream, except this is far worse._

_This nothingness feels like it will last forever._

_As if his life had been a fiction, a dream he made up and this - this emptiness is the real truth. He feels the panic start to bubble up, but he can’t twitch a muscle, not when there isn’t a heart to beat faster._

_He's seen battle and death before, but nothing compares to this. It’s the horrifying moments of sleep paralysis but magnified a thousand times - this is an eternity trapped in darkness, unable to move or breathe._

_Or die._

_I'm Steve Rogers, I'm 32 years old and I have a mission. He repeats the litany himself desperately, over and over, until the individual words start to break down and lose meaning._

_This is a dream it isn’t real, this is a dream it isn’t real, this is a dream it isn’t real, thisisadreamitisntrealthisisadreamitisntreal…_

Light and air rush back as the world reforms around them.

Steve pitches forward onto his hands and takes deep grateful gulps of air, his heart hammering in his once-again corporeal body.

“What… the fuck just happened?” gasps Natasha. She looks more rattled than Steve’s ever seen her.

“He must've flatlined in the real world,” A drained Sam swipes at the cold sweat on his forehead. “Congrats, ladies and gents, you just got a sneak peek into the great unknown…”

“He died.” T’Challa’s eyes are glazed and distant. “For only a minute, but it so much felt longer…”

Breathing heavily, Steve touches his fingers to Stark’s neck once more - the return of a pulse sends a surge of relief coursing through him.

“If we’re stuck inside a dying body…” Scott’s face is pale beneath his stubble. “That means our own minds could be lost in a dimension wh-where time and space become irrelevant. We could wind up in Limbo...or worse.”

“I think you just found ‘worse’.” mutters Natasha.

“So if he kicks it, we're trapped in darkness till our brains turn to mush?” Wanda’s shoulders quake as she wraps her arms tightly around herself. “This is so messed up…”

“We’re trapped!”

“ENOUGH!” Everyone’s attention immediately snaps to Steve. “Losing our heads isn't gonna help anyone. There’s no other way through this but forward.”

They can’t escape even if they wanted to; the somnacin keeps them under for one full cycle at the very least. The only way out is to go deeper into the labyrinth.

He turns to each member of his team, trying to project a confidence he doesn’t feel. They all look various degrees of shaken and he can’t blame them - nothing in the world could have prepared them for this type of danger.

But he can't afford to fall apart now, not when he has a mission to do, and he shoves down the part of him that wonders if he’s being selfish, that quails at the prospect of returning to that dark Not-Place.

_Walk it off, Rogers._

Steve takes a deep breath. “We have Shuri on the outside keeping Stark stable. Right now we have no choice but to trust her to do her job. Just like we're going to do ours.”

His words echo, oddly resonant in the steel-walled room, and he latches onto the momentum of it, drawing whatever courage he can.

“We stick to the plan; Scott, we’re counting on you to hold the fort on this level. After we go under, wait five minutes to start the kick song, _Star Spangled Man_ \- that’ll give you enough time to drive to the river.”

Scott nods shakily. “Will do, Steve.”

“The rest of you guys know the drill. Time will stretch out as we go deeper down the levels, giving us more breathing room to work. A minute here is several hours the next level down. Remember your points and keep an ear out so you don't miss the kick.” Steve pauses. “Anything hurts you, hurt it back. Get killed - walk it off.”

Not his best speech, but it works; Sam and Natasha are looking steadier and the hollowed-out look was starting to fade from Wanda’s eyes.

“You heard the man.” Sam swallows heavily and starts hauling people to their feet. “Let's move, team.”

Slightly reassured by the pep talk, the team packs up into the car for the next stage.

 _A place where time and space become irrelevant,_ Steve muses while connecting the IV to his arm. Until now, the possibility of returning to Limbo had been his only fear.

Now… He hopes he hasn’t just condemned everyone to an even worse fate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Everyone's current ages in this AU are as follows: Steve (32 IRL with beard, looks 27 in dream world with no beard), Tony (46), Natasha (32), Sam (38), T'Challa (33-35), Bucky (33), Wanda (21), Scott (40)
> 
> 2\. [Helix Bridge](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Helix_Bridge) is a [real place](http://www.coxarchitecture.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2015/11/404038_00_N424_highresjpg-e1450315302773.jpg) in Singapore, though it's a pedestrian bridge so you can't actually drive on it. I always thought it was pretty and wanted to do a shoutout to my own country :p
> 
> 3\. Yes, Steve's disguise is a Red Skull mask. I originally wrote it as a dollar-store Captain America mask, but thought it'd be better this way since he's playing the bad cop in the interrogation.
> 
> 4\. So in Inception (2010), the train is a manifestation of Cobb's guilt over the death of Mal, which is interesting considering how trains factor in to the MCU relationship between Steve and Bucky.
> 
> 5\. As you can see, I'm playing fast and loose with Inception canon, and the next few chapters will diverge even more. Schmoopy stuff is coming...
> 
> 6\. I just got my IW tickets for the 25th! I'm going to take a few weeks' break to see how the new canon shakes down, though I highly doubt anything in the film will change my original outline for this fic. In the meantime I will continue editing the next couple chapters. See you guys then!
> 
> on [tumblr](http://peppypear.tumblr.com/)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...Who else needs cheering up after Infinity War? :'D

In a blink, Steve finds himself standing in a business office.

His surroundings are furnished in dark greys and frosted glass, modern and minimalist. Rows of computer screens and server towers line the walls, glinting coldly under the fluorescent lighting.

A lone projection patrols the rows of cubicles, regarding Steve with little interest as it trudges out of the office and into the main corridor.

_We’ve barely started altering this level of the dream, so they have no real reason to attack. Yet._

The number of projections would increase the deeper they progressed into the dream, so they would need to play this differently. Their success metric for this level hinged on one deceptively simple task: gaining the trust of the target.

There was a glass-walled conference room in the center of the office. And inside, slumped over the table, both hands cuffed to a bolt in the floor, was Stark.

“I'm in the South Tower with the target,” Steve taps at his communicator. “What's your status, Sam?” He visualizes Wanda’s layout of the sprawling office complex: four towers, one for each compass point, laid out in a diamond and each connected via a sky bridge. Exactly as they’d discussed.

“The team’s with me in the West Tower. Heading to the rendezvous point in the North Tower,” Sam replies.

Good, that meant everyone was in place.

“Once I've made contact with Stark, we'll meet you there directly.” The bridge from South to North Tower was several floors down from him. He'd get Stark to the access point and - if they were lucky - manage to avoid any altercations with enemies. In and out. Simple.

"Gotcha. We'll create a skirmish to draw enemies away from your location,” Sam replies.

Something moves in the corner of Steve’s vision, and he turns towards the source.

Stark is glowering at him from inside the glass cube, sitting as upright as the handcuffs will let him.

“He's awake now, update you shortly. Out.” Steve puts the comm away and heads into the room.

“If this is a shakedown, you amateurs are doing it wrong,” Stark drawls as Steve enters. His cuffed hands tug at the bolt, trying in vain to free himself. “When Rushman gets here, get ready to be sued so hard that you'll be lucky to-”

“You're in a dream now, Stark.” The rehearsed lie falls smoothly from Steve’s mouth. “Your mind is under attack by Obadiah Stane, but don’t worry, I’m here to help you.”

“That's cute,” Stark clicks his tongue impatiently. “How about you tell me who you really work for? Wait, let me guess; is it AIM? Hammer? Richards?” Stark groans. “It better not be that moron, Stone…”

“I’m not joking, this is all a dream.” Steve sweeps his arm out, gesturing to the projection in the distance. “Look around you, since when did SI have metal bodyguards?”

“Since when did this become my life?” Stark mutters, rolling his eyes at the ceiling. “Is your entire kidnapping club hopped up on happy juice, or is it just you?”

Steve presses on. “Can you remember how you got here or what you were doing just now?”

“Uh, not being born yesterday, that’s for sure.” Stark shifts restlessly in his seat and the handcuff clinks against his watch. “You really think I’m so gullible that I'd believe a single word that comes out of your mouth?”

So that’s how it’s going to be. Choosing to ignore Stark’s bitching, Steve slides a notepad and pen across the table. “I’m going to need a five-digit PIN from you. Give me the code and I’ll get you out of here.”

_Come on, just tell me the five numbers - 62742 - so we can confirm that the pattern is in play._

Stark picks up the pen and darts a quick look up through his lashes. Several emotions flit through his eyes; bewilderment, irritation, and something else Steve can’t identify. Stark twirls the pen around deftly in his fingers, then snaps it clean in half.

“Is this some kind of joke?” Stark’s shoulders stiffen, cuffed hands sliding off the table to clench in his lap. “I don’t know what your game is, but damned if I'm gonna let some fluffed-up Backstreet Boy wannabe-”

“Who’s currently the only person trying to help you,” Steve fires back impatiently. “Why don't you shut up for a second and do as you're told?”

“Oh, I'm starting to want you to make me,” The corner of Stark’s mouth curls disdainfully. “Take a shot, tough guy, it's not like I can fight you off or anything.” Stark looks fully ready to throw a punch himself, despite the size disadvantage and being chained to the floor.

Steve feels a vein in his head start to throb. “That's not how I do things.”

Stark smirks. “What’s wrong? Too scared to hit a man who can't fight back? Oh wait-” He leans forward, eyes widening. “Is that your thing? Because you're supposed to negotiate the safeword _before_ the toys come out-”

Sensing he’s starting to lose control of the interview, Steve tries for a more placating tone. “Listen to me, I'm here to help you-”

“Uh huh. So you keep saying, ” Stark’s gaze goes distracted as his hands fumble around, clearly doing _something_ under the table. Judging by the way he’s biting down on his bottom lip, the rustle-snick of fabric, and how his hands are bobbing around in his lap…

_Oh my god, is he actually…?_

Steve gapes several seconds too long before tearing his eyes away, feeling a burning flush run up his neck. “Can you stop playing with yourself and focus here?”

“Aw, don’t be like that, I can’t help what you bring out in me.” Stark leers. “Ever hear of letting loose? You should try it once in a while.”

“You're shameless.” Shoving his chair back from the table, Steve resolutely turns to face the glass so he doesn't have to look at him. Evidently everything he'd heard about Stark’s lecherous reputation was true.

“Sweetheart, ‘shameless’ could be my middle name.” The smugness in Stark’s voice is infuriating. “Well, actually, it's Edward, but nobody gives a fuck about details like that.” His breath hitches, and he makes a series of sounds - short breaths and soft grunts - that Steve really doesn't want to think about too hard.

“...mmf, that's right. And there we go.” Stark’s voice breaks on a sigh, a satisfied little grin curling over his lips.

Steve coughs awkwardly “If you're quite done,” he re-seats himself at the table. “We need to return to the task at-”

Stark silences him with a raised finger. “ _Aaaaand_ I’m afraid your allotted time is up. Sorry, Crossfit, but consulting hours are now over.”

“What-?”

Stark snaps into motion like a tightly wound spring, and a pair of unlocked handcuffs go flying into Steve’s face.

Unprepared, Steve flinches and that's all the time Stark needs to bolt out of the room.

Steve chases after him, cursing his inattentiveness all the way. Stark must have been picking his handcuffs under the table the entire time, using his mouthiness as a distraction - and like a fool, Steve had fallen for it. If they weren't so pressed for time, Steve would be more amazed at the speed of his escape, and that he'd managed it with a _pen_ no less.

He had to find Stark before he got himself in trouble. There was no telling what kind of danger might be lurking in this level of the dream.

He catches sight of Stark at the end of the hall, facing off head-to-torso against a towering projection. Stark sinks into a defensive stance as the metal creature backs him up against the wall. It raises its weapon to strike and Stark instinctively throws up an arm to shield himself.

With no time to think, Steve summons the first weapon that comes into his head.

Captain America’s shield materializes into his hands and he hurls it with all his might. The spinning edge slices off the metal arm at the shoulder joint - distracted, the now one-armed metal creature turns away from Stark just in time to catch a hit to the faceplate.

As the projection staggers back, Steve retrieves the shield and strikes a blow so hard it tears the creature in two. The metal body collapses with a clatter at Stark’s feet.

“Are you okay?” Steve asks.

Stark lowers his arm and eyes Steve warily. “Want to explain why there are terminator things walking around?”

“Projections. They’re what a subconscious uses to defend itself.” Steve kicks the projection’s head out of the way. “They're all after you.”

“A dream.” Stark presses his lips together. “Really, now. And who, pray tell, is behind this?”

“Stane.” Steve lies smoothly. “He kidnapped and drugged you, as we speak he’s trying steal information from your mind.”

“Ah, so that's how it is,” Betrayal flashes through Stark’s dark eyes, but he doesn't seem particularly surprised by the answer, almost as if he'd been expecting it. “And how do you fit into the equation?”

“I'm a manifestation of your subconscious, my job is to protect you.” Steve says.

“Protect m-? So you're like my imaginary friend?” Stark sputters weakly, looking like he wants nothing more than a stiff drink. “Okay, then… that's new…definitely shouldn’t have stopped going to therapy…”

Stark still looks on edge, casting glances at the shield as if he's afraid Steve is going to brain him with it next. The realisation makes Steve quickly lower the shield and stow it on his back harness.

Hoping he looks less threatening now, Steve plunges into his next lie. “Something like that. You can trust me, I’m your mind’s first line of defense.”

“And you chose that thing? It’s medieval.” Stark flaps his hand at the shield, trying to recover some of his composure. “I feel so much safer now.”

“It was the first thing I could come up with,” Steve answers, miffed. He always tried to avoid creating structures and tools within dreams, but the shock of seeing Stark in danger had pushed him to react by instinct - and as it turned out, his first instinct had been to summon a shield.

Steve shakes his head, deciding not to read too much into it. “It's from a cartoon about- you know what, never mind, you probably haven't heard of it.”

“Well fuck me sideways, someone’s a real hipster.” Stark scoffs, gingerly picking his way through pieces of shattered projection.

“Language,” Steve sighs. “And I'm not a hipster.”

“Sure you aren't, and Uncle Sam doesn't piss red, white, and blue.” Tony puts his hands on his hips, drawing himself up as much as he can, despite Steve having several inches and sixty-odd pounds on him. “So, what are you fighting for? Whales, world peace, the right to wear spangly underwear…?”

“Do you ever stop talking?” Steve snaps, feeling the return of his migraine. This mission was turning into one headache after another; dealing with an uncooperative target on one hand, and the constant threat of death via nonexistence on the other.

_No pressure, Rogers._

“Like I said, make me.” Stark raises his chin, eyebrow arched challengingly. “Normally, it’s a lot more fun than this when a stacked blond pushes me around and tells me what to do. Though since you’re already inside my mind, I’ll give you points for making the penetration relatively painless…”  

To his horror, Steve feels his ears going red at the mental images _those_ words conjure up. The recent rush of adrenaline sends blood rushing to some other parts as well.

Stark smirks. “Not such a boy scout under there, I see.” He sidles up to Steve, getting up into his space, casting an appreciative look up and down.

“Is everything a joke to you?” Unprepared for the barrage of innuendos, Steve’s whole face feels like it’s on fire. “Because this isn’t the time nor place.”

“You're too easy to wind up.” Stark laughs, clapping Steve on the shoulder. “At ease, Wonder Bread, I'm just messing with you.”

“You're welcome, by the way.” Steve mutters. “My name’s Steve, so maybe you can stop with the nicknames.”

“Tony. Genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist,” His lips curl into a sour smile. “Holder of exactly six hundred and sixteen weapon patents, and voted Sexiest Man Alive three years running.”

“Sure know how to toot your own horn, don't you?”

“I can give you something to toot, if you'd like…” He stops himself at the look Steve gives him. “Fine, _fine_ , I'll stop hassling you.” Tony’s smirk fades and an inquisitive look steals over his face. “Come to think of it, you _do_ seem familiar, do I know you from something? An actor, perhaps?”

Oh. This was what Natasha meant when she said that being recognized could throw a wrench in their plans.

“I just have one of those faces.” Steve answers as noncommittally as he can.

“Mmm, and what a face it is. I-” Tony drifts off mid-sentence as his gaze roves over Steve’s face and arms. “Huh.”

Steve tries not to fidget under the close scrutiny. He knows his appearance tends to attract attention, but there's not a trace of lasciviousness in Tony’s brown eyes, only open wonder. It’s...unsettling, but not entirely unwelcome.

When Tony finally draws back with an impressed cluck, there’s no sign of recognition. “Kudos to my subconscious for dreaming up a literal guardian angel, emphasis on the angel. What’s your secret? Kale smoothies on the astral plane?”

Steve rolls his eyes, trying to hide his relief at not being recognized. “You know, just because we're in your dream doesn't mean I have to put up with your bull.”

“So you're my subconscious here to kick my own ass. Make me a better person and all.” Tony leans against the wall with a short laugh. “My, how very life coach of me.”

Having apparently decided Steve was no longer a threat, Tony crouches down to examine the still-glowing power core of the dismembered projection.

“What are you doing?” Steve frowns as Tony starts detaching the core from the chassis.

“Waste not. It’s not like this buckethead is gonna need it anymore-” and Tony launches into a searing critique of the projection’s many design flaws and how much better it would have functioned if he had built it.

Steve shakes his head, still a little stunned at how Tony’s mood could change on a dime.

The man he'd met at the college seemed like a different person; this side of Tony displays the vibrancy Steve had seen in Natasha’s research videos. However, as now he’s discovering, _being_ the sole focus of all Tony’s energy is different from seeing it on screen: all Tony had done was flirt outrageously and dive into trouble, unconcerned with Steve’s efforts to rescue his ungrateful - but extremely well-formed - backside.

Steve doesn’t know what to make of him.

“...can’t understand why anybody would design something so clunky and stick a huge glowing target in the center of the chest. Anyhow,” Satisfied with his salvage efforts, Tony pockets the core and stands up. “Is this the part you tell me to come with you if I want to live?”

“That’s what I’ve been saying from the start.” Steve says, a little grumpily. “Call me what you want,” _Bodyguard, more like babysitter._ “I'm here to keep you out of trouble.”

“You want to be my big strong rescuer against the big bad machines?” Leaning against the wall, Tony snickers openly. “Jesus, I've had fantasies before, but to have them play out this literally? There must be so much Freudian stuff swimming around in my brain that I-”

“As I was saying,” Steve is ready to give up on Tony not finding a way to turn every word into a double entendre. At least he’s cooperating now. “We should get out of here before more enemies show up.”

Tony pushes himself off the wall. “Can't argue with that. Speaking of which, I’m gonna need a weapon, too.”

“That won’t be necessary,” The clock is ticking; in the dream above them, Scott will soon be starting the countdown song to wake everyone up. Steve has to move this along, and quickly. “I'll deal with anything that attacks you.”

“Listen, your macho routine is very charming - in another situation I’d be vocally, enthusiastically on board - but I can handle myself.” Tony casts an uneasy gaze down the currently-deserted hallway. “You're gonna need help fighting those... projection things. They pack a mean punch.”

“And how exactly are you going to be any help?” It comes out more condescending than he intends, because Tony bristles at his words. Steve is only being honest: Tony’s tailored three-piece looks more suited to a boardroom than a battlefield.

“Give me a weapon. Or at least give me some time to build one.” Tony folds his arms, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet. “There’s gotta be a maintenance locker around here or a set of tools… something _,_ _anything_. Come on, it won’t take long.”

Steve hesitates. “I don't have time for this.”

Tony’s face shutters at the refusal. “Fine. If you're gonna be like that then it's better that we go our separate ways.” His jaw snaps shut with a click and he turns his back on Steve to leave.

“Don't be a idiot, Stark!” Steve calls after him. “There are more of them out there, it's suicide to go alone.”

Tony gives him the finger without even turning round. “Worry about yourself, I'll take my own chances.”

There’s foolish and then there’s _foolish_. Wandering off alone, unarmed, through a building infested with eight-foot tall metal robots falls firmly into the latter.

Steve is moving before Tony can take three steps. “We are not splitting up.” He seizes Tony by the arm and spins him around.

Tony gives an “oof”, wind knocked out of him as Steve shunts him against the wall.

Steve looms - he’s a lot bigger than most people, he can't help _but_ loom - over the other man, crowding him in. “We have to do this together, or-”

“Or what?” Tony snarls, jabbing at Steve's eyes, agitation making him telegraph his moves. Steve catches the fist in his hand by reflex and pins it against the wall above Tony’s head.

“Tony, stop- ow!” Steve grunts in pain as the second punch hits him in the solar plexus. He grabs Tony’s other wrist and traps it next to the first. Then he has to twist out of the way to avoid a knee to the gut because Tony is now resorting to kicking him. He surges in as close as he can, jamming his hip against the other man’s so that he’s too near to be hit. “Stop- hitting me.”

“And what? You’ll buy me dinner?” Tony wriggles in his grasp, trying to buck Steve off, but he may as well be trying to push a tank for all the use it does him. Efforts fruitless, he glowers at Steve, quiet fury radiating off him. “Okay. Now you're starting to piss me off.”

The moment starts to sink in as Steve realises he’s pinning the other man with his whole body: their faces are barely a foot apart with how chests are crushed together and he can feel Tony’s pulse jumping under his palms… not to mention how his leg is wedged between Tony’s thighs.

The seconds slow to a crawl and he can feel Tony start to tense up in his grip. Tony’s expression turns inward, a tremble running through his jaw, like he's rapidly reevaluating Steve as a threat.

Steve immediately drops his hands and steps back. “Sorry. That was completely uncalled for.”

Blinking, Tony stumbles away from the wall, surprised at how suddenly Steve let him go.

“Right back at ya, might wanna tamp down on the manhandling if you're trying to get people to listen to you.” Tony's wariness is back, and with a hiss he rubs at his wrists where twin handprints are forming.

Steve feels pang of shame. “Look, can we try this again?” he spreads his hands, attempting to clear the air. “We got off on the wrong foot- clearly. Can we figure out a way to work together?”

Tony huffs a sigh and looks up, down, everywhere but at Steve. His face looks pinched, nervous, like danger of the situation is finally sinking in for him. Steve supposes that's understandable; being told they were trapped in a dream would be enough to rattle anyone.

Trying to reassure, Steve ventures again. “I know that you don't trust me, but-”

“I don’t want to be defenseless.” Tony’s voice has gone soft and uncertain, as if he’s ashamed of admitting it. His gaze flicks up and for an instant the mask of bravado drops away, and in his eyes- there, Steve can see it now - is the fear of being a burden, of being useless. Of being weak.

And it's a feeling Steve understands all too well. He'd always hated being dependent on someone else - the patronizing way people behaved when he was fourteen and skinny and asthmatic. It had only gotten worse when “orphan” became yet another labels to describe his life. Always being underestimated and pitied, treated like he was some helpless thing in need of saving.

Steve knows, with bloody-knuckled conviction, how it's like to push back extra hard, so nobody looks too hard at the cracks.

Nodding, he steps back from Tony. “Alright. Let's have a look around.”

It’s out of pure practicality - if Tony has a way to defend himself then it makes Steve’s job of protecting him a hell of a lot easier. Tony’s unfairly expressive eyes have nothing to do with it.

At least that’s what Steve tells himself.

\--

As luck would have it, they find a maintenance room tucked away at the end of a hall. The stuffy little room barely counts as a storage closet and it's a mess inside; piled high with broken appliances, old AC units, half assembled computer terminals, with a few battered tools scattered over a workbench.

Steve eyes it all dubiously. He'd seen junkyards with more life in them. “You sure about this? It's garbage.”

But Tony beams. His eyes crinkle up at the corners in a smile that makes him seem much younger. “It's perfect! More than I need.”

Tony makes a circuit of the room, stripping every broken item for parts. He dumps his box of scavenged scraps on the cleanest work table, undoing his tie as he wiggles out of his jacket. The movement tugs down the neckline of his shirt, briefly exposing a mass of raised scars that spiderweb across his chest.

Tony catches him staring and readjusts his shirt with a frown. Clad now in a vest and with with his sleeves rolled up past his forearms, Tony starts organizing his pile of junk, extracting parts and fashioning them into...something.

Watching the work take form under his hands, Steve can't help but be impressed by his skill, for Tony worked with a speed that would surely be impossible in the real world. His movements, fluid and certain, reminded him of Wanda’s magic but applied to engineering instead of buildings.

 _He's creating within the dream,_ the realisation dawns on Steve as he watches in fascination. _And he doesnt even realise he's doing it_.

Now that Tony wasn’t in constant motion, Steve takes the chance to study him more closely; a smaller, more compact frame, but no lightweight either - the lean lines of muscle in his arms and shoulders speak of a man who had spent years building things with his hands. Tony’s face is rapt with concentration, and his brown eyes - now that they weren’t glaring - are large and long-lashed, ardently focused on his work.

“So. Obie’s behind this.” Tony says conversationally while jimmying open the back of a dented microwave.

“Yes.”

“You’re here to stop him-”

“Yes.”

“-from stealing an idea out of my brain.”

“Yes.” Steve says tiredly. Now seemed as good a time as any to pick up where their interview had left off. _Give me the damn code already. Five numbers, it’s not that hard. “_ Do you have any clue what he could be after?”

Tony smiles. “ULTRON, of course.”

...What?

“Obie, Obie, always thinking about the bottom line. You should’ve seen his face when he heard about my freebie clause.” Tony chuckles, testing the tension on whatever mystery item he's constructing. “This is more important than money, it’s the future. ULTRON isn’t something you can put in a box and sell to the mass-market.” He starts flattening out a curved metal plate with a hammer. “I'm gonna make sure the world gets the protection it deserves, and this little program is going to change everything.”

“By giving up control for safety?” Steve sits down next to him. “Why are you doing this?”

Tony pauses take a breath, drawing himself up like he’s about to launch into a rousing speech. “Imagine, a suit of armor around the world-”

Steve rolls his eyes. “No, not the press line. Why do _you_ believe in it?”

Dropping the dramatic attitude, Tony reverts his normal voice. “I’m trying to protect the people i put in harm’s way. When I was in Afg-” He bites back his words, then continues, voice flat and subdued, words sounding almost rehearsed. “I saw young Americans killed by the very weapons I created to defend them and protect them.” His eyes take on a fervent gleam. “No more.”

Tony takes out the power core and starts disassembling it. “Imagine every battle won before it begins. ULTRON can neutralize threats before they even materialize - identify the threat down to blood type, political affiliation, favorite TV show-”

“I thought the punishment came after the crime. Every time someone tries to win a war before it starts, innocents die.” Steve hands Tony a screwdriver but is waved off.

“Just put that down there, I don't like being handed things. And to address your concerns-” Tony turns to him, eyes blazing with that same passion. “It’s an imperfect world, but it’s the only one we got. Trust me, this is the best way, the _only_ way to privatize world peace.” Tony’s voice rings with the zeal of a believer and it sounds like he sincerely _does_ believe his own words.

Almost. There’s something else hidden in beneath the idealistic spiel. No, this wasn't just about politics - Steve can sense something personal buried beneath.

“Sounds like a cold world.” Steve says slowly.

“I've seen colder. And if it can protect the people I love?” Tony sets his jaw determinedly. “It's worth it.”

Steve doesn't have anything to say to that. Some things are indisputable; giving your life for the cause, taking a bullet for your men, going into hell to save the people you care for - even if it costs you your soul. Even if it means dragging everyone down with you…  

Tony continues, this time securing something around his forearm. “I’ve been working on ULTRON for years - had trouble finishing because I’d always run up against the same roadblock.” His smile goes rigid. “Till a while ago, that is - I finally got the right push. Had a real come-to-Jesus moment.”

Steve seizes on that. “What sort of-”

Tony shoves his arm into Steve’s face without so much as a warning. “Check it out! What do you think?” Strapped to his forearm is a sleek gauntlet painted red and gold (how had he found time for _spray painting?_ ), with what looks like a small cannon embedded in the palm. “This should hold off those metal goons.”

“That's really, uh…”   _Weird, fantastical, awesome._ Steve goes for neutral. “Unconventional.”

“Says the man carrying around a giant frisbee,” Tony says dryly, as if he could hear Steve’s mental list of unflattering options. “I repurposed the power core into a repulsor cannon. Wait till you see what this baby can do.”

Tony aims the cannon at a filing cabinet and fires.

The aluminium tower crumples in a scream of metal. The recoil sends Tony flying back, and he fetches up against Steve, who catches him before he can tumble any further.

“Whoa, I really gotta adjust the power on the thrusters,” he clambers to his feet and lurches back to the bench. “That was only 10%, definitely way too much kickback…”

“Perhaps you shouldn't blow things up when we're in the same room.” Steve’s words are ignored as Tony dives back into tinkering.

Once again, it was mesmerizing to watch him work. The flirtatious attitude from earlier had completely vanished, which made Steve suspect that it was just a persona. The dedicated engineer who spins magic out of pieces of scrap, he senses, is the real man.

“Say, you're a very good listener, you've got me spilling my guts over here while you haven’t said a single thing about yourself.” Hands buried in his work, Tony inclines his head towards Steve. “How did a place like this end up in a guy like you?”

Steve blinks in surprise before realising Tony’s just making small talk. “The job? Just fell into it, I guess.”

“Nobody just ‘falls into’ anything. What's your story?”

“Uh…”

“You said you're a manifestation of my subconscious, which means you're a reflection of some aspect of me, I guess. ” Tony smirks ruefully. “And judging by the All-American apple pie appearance - probably the part that still believes in truth, optimism and the inherent goodness of mankind.”

Steve isn’t sure what’s the right thing to say to that, so he says nothing.

Tony doesn't buy it, twirling a screwdriver in his clever fingers. “Yeah, the silent thing isn’t gonna fly. Now that we’re working together there’s gotta be some quid pro quo.” Tony winks at him, adjusting the gauntlet’s circuitry. “So lay it on me, Steve-my-unfairly-good-looking-imaginary-friend.”

Steve pauses. “I don’t think-”

“Come on,” Tony drawls out. “Tell me the whole sordid story. We’re not here to debate ideologies.”

Well. As long as he doesn’t completely blow his cover, there’s no harm offering up some truth. You have to lose some to gain some.

“I used to be an architect,” Steve says haltingly. “Did lots of work designing buildings, sculptures, mazes...” he fidgets. “I liked it, and I was good at it.”

“Mhm. Sounds like you had a lot going for you. But I'm sensing some tension in the use of past tense. What happened?”

Steve bites his lip. “I made a mistake.” That was putting it lightly. “Something I- I created turned out wrong, and my friend got hurt badly.” Careful, Steve. “He’s never been the same after that.”

The noises of construction cease. Tony looks at him sharply and Steve can see the wheels in his head turning, searching his words for some hidden trap. “What did you do?”

“I stopped doing what I was doing. Immediately.” Steve chooses to misunderstand the question. “When I saw how much it hurt everyone, I had to make sure I never did that to anyone ever again-”

“No, what did you do to your friend?” Tony presses. His voice is apprehensive, as though he expects Steve to confirm his worst fears. “What happened?”

An accident. A mistake- _his_ mistake. He could still hear the crunch of snow as Bucky had walked away that day, walked straight to the bridge in the dead of winter where he had…

Suddenly it’s all too much. The directness of the question and the attention-  Steve has always tried to avoid talking about the matter, and this is too close, too personal for him to talk about with just anyone.

Especially to a stranger he just met.

“I don’t think that’s any of your business.” Steve snaps. He regrets it immediately because Tony’s face goes wide and hurt, before closing off again, stung by his curt tone.

The pause stretches out between them, long and uncomfortable.

“...I need the soldering iron,” Tony says gruffly, turning back to his contraption.

And now they were back to square one. What was it about the man that made him repeatedly lose his temper?

Steve sucks a breath through his teeth, then picks up the soldering iron, placing it next to Tony’s hand. “I don’t talk about it much.”

“You don’t need to explain,” Picking up the tool, Tony rearranges his face into conciliatory expression. “We've all got scars.”

There didn't seem to be a way to pick up the conversation after that so they continue in silence, Tony working on his gauntlet with Steve keeping lookout.

Finally, Tony clears his throat expectantly.

“Ladies and gentleman, I would like to introduce the Mark 2.” With a flourish, Tony slips the gauntlet on his arm and takes aim at a distant pile of trash.

The improved design is no less powerful than the first - the blast shreds the metal cabinets to ribbons - but without the hefty kickback. His second blast has the computer terminals splintering in a spray of sparks. The third blast shatters all the windows.

“Whoo! Yes!” Tony pumps his fist.

“That's really amazing,” Steve says. “I've never seen a weapon like that before, and the way you just came up with it right off the bat-”

The praise makes Tony's eyes light up. “If you think this is great, you should see what I can cook up in my lab. I could make an entire set of-”

“I know you can,” Steve puts an hand on Tony’s shoulder to stop him from blowing up the whole floor. “Save what you have for the party.”

“I’ll be the one bringing the party to them!” Tony crows, turning on Steve with a wide, excited grin. He looks so proud of his new creation that Steve can't help smiling back.

He gives Tony’s shoulder a squeeze. “We can definitely use-”

The communicator buzzes. “Come in, Steve, please tell me you’ve made contact with Stark.”

Dropping his hand, Steve answers it. “I've got Tony with me. What's your status, Sam?”

“You guys are doing first names now?” Despite the noises of battle in the background, Sam manages to sound amused. “We’re on schedule, nearly at the rendezvous. You guys might want to prepare for company, though. Check your scanner - a large group of projections just peeled off from us and are heading your way.”

“Got it, hold down the fort till we get there.”

“So what’s the plan?” Tony asks, reloading the ammo cartridge on his gauntlet.

“We head to the sky bridge’s access point, which is located ten floors below here. That’ll bring us to the North Tower, where my team is waiting.” When he opens the viewport of the scanner it’s just as Sam said: large packs of projections are congregating on every floor below theirs, blocking their path to the access point.

“There are too many enemies for one person to fight through, so we’ll have to work together.” Steve concedes grudgingly.

“How about that? Luckily for you I’m feeling extra magnanimous, so I won't say ‘I told you so’.” Tony stretches languorously, and Steve definitely isn't looking - even if the action makes Tony’s shirt slide appealingly over the curve of his hips.

“Just stay close to me and don’t do anything reckless.” Steve says, feeling like his day just got more complicated.

“You're the boss.” Tony sketches a lazy salute. Then, under his breath. “Captain Uptight.”

As they leave the storage room behind them, Steve feels doubt start to stir. The whole mission is heading into uncharted territory - he had never dealt on a target who refused to obey orders and took so much initiative. Tony’s unpredictability could turn out to be very helpful or very dangerous for all of them.

 _Whatever the case,_ Steve thinks, _we have no choice but to work together._

\--

It's not too long before they’re ambushed.

First by a pack of three, then five, then eight… each wave of enemies keeps getting bigger than the last. With a concentrated effort, Steve can take down two or three units at a time, but once the projections started coming in groups of thirteen or more…  

Steve hates admitting when he’s wrong, but he’s grateful to have backup. One person couldn't have handled it alone.

They fall into a pattern: Steve plunging into the melee, taking on the brunt of attacks with Tony providing cover fire from a distance, preventing the stragglers from swarming Steve.

They make it down those ten floors relatively unharmed, suffering no worse than a tear in the side of his suit (Steve), and slightly burned fingers (Tony).

Now, they’re battling twenty projections in a high-ceilinged elevator lobby. The battle had made a wreck of the place, leaving burns and gouges in the walls, strewing debris across the marble floor.

“That's 86 for me!” Tony shoots out a projection’s kneecaps, then clobbers it in the face with a jet-powered punch.

“Since when was this a competition?” Steve embeds the shield into a robot’s chestplate, then kicks it over the balcony.

“I thought we could have a friendly wager, since you insist on using a _clearly_ inferior weapon.” Tony spins around, zapping a robot which had been sneaking up on Steve. “Mark 2 and I are Team Innovation, so you and your King Arthur cosplay better step it up.”

Steve laughs, short and fierce. “I’ll take it. He did lead Camelot through a golden age.”

“Be that as it may,” Tony tips him a roguish grin. “Innovation always wins.”

The both of them work well together, seamlessly covering each others’ blind spots. Sure, Tony isn’t as perfectly coordinated as Sam or Natasha, but he had picked up the basics of combat surprisingly fast, always there to fire off cannon blasts and quips, and there's something electrifying and _fun_ in the air…

“On your six, Ultimate Frisbee!”

...If only he’d stop criticizing Steve’s choice of weaponry. As Tony’s kill count increased, so had the offers to upgrade his gear. Well, that and the cockiness.

Rolling his eyes, Steve spins around and shatters another power core with a blow from the shield.

“You sure you don't want me to build you something better?” Tony blasts two projections through the chest in quick succession. “You're in dire need of an upgrade. It’s getting real hard for me to look at you.”

“I like the shield just fine.”

“And I like when people aren’t handicapping themselves with crappy tools. Just wait until your frisbee gets stuck up a tree and you’re surrounded by bad guys who want to kick your-”

“Tell you what,” Steve answers, feeling a sudden spark of playfulness. “Beat me in this little competition and I'll gladly use whatever gizmo you cook up.”

“Oh, I like this. I’m gonna make you eat those words,” Tony practically cackles at the challenge. “Prepare to be upgraded so hard you won’t even know what happened.”

Despite himself, Steve’s lips twitch upwards.

Most of the enemies are on the ground so he pauses to catch his breath, but… movement from the corner of his eye draws his attention; a pack of six is advancing down the stairs, loaded cannons aimed straight at him. Steve turns, looking for support - but Tony is busy fighting two projections on the far side of the room.

Steve is on his own.

So he scans his surroundings, looking for anything he can turn to his advantage... Steve catches sight of the humongous wrought-iron chandelier, an evil-looking thing studded with jagged spikes. _Realistically, that structure should be too heavy for a single chain to support, Steve quirks a brow at the sight, _but that’s dream logic for you.__

“Call me a square all you like, but-” Steve backs up slowly, moving to the edge of the atrium. “-but sometimes the old-fashioned things work best,” He fixes the angle in his mind, calculating the trajectory and amount of spin needed for his next move. “Teaches you to get creative in other ways.”

He holds his ground, waiting for all six projections to enter the kill zone.

“Steve, move! What are you doing-?” Tony whirls around, frantically reloading his gauntlet.

Now.

Steve hurls the shield up. It arcs towards the chandelier, barely skimming the ceiling, before the spinning edge snaps through the chain. Freed from suspension, the chandelier falls, crushing the six projections and impaling four more that are unlucky enough to stand too close.

“How’s that for innovation? And when you count this fella,” Steve catches the shield and decapitates a straggler sneaking up behind him. “Looks like I win, 93 to 92.”

“That still only counts as one!” Tony stalks over to him, grumbling all the way as he steps over a tangle of metal limbs. “Oh, whatever, you probably don't even get that reference…”

“Sure I do, that movie’s a classic.” Steve feels a smile tugging at his lips. The adrenaline of a good fight is coursing through his blood, lifting his spirits. The good vibes lull him into nostalgia, reminding him of those old battles with friends, and he finds himself saying, “Great job, Tony, I couldn’t have done this without you.”

Tony’s response is to gawk.

 _What is he staring at?_ Steve brushes his hair back nervously, suddenly aware of how much sweat and grime he's covered in. His blue tac suit is torn at the hip, courtesy of an enemy who’d gotten in a lucky swipe. And while it hadn’t drawn blood, the cool kiss of air on his exposed skin is proof enough of his carelessness. He must look a mess.

Self conscious, Steve smooths his hair back again.

Tony gulps. “Where to next?”

The mission. Right.

Reluctantly shoving down the post-fight high, Steve pulls out the scanner. Based on the map, they’re only a few hundred meters from the access point.

Steve points towards the battered double doors. “Through there, it’s just a few hallways from-”

A low noise blares through the halls. Sonorus and heavy, like a groan from the rusted throat of some enormous machine. The raucous noise makes Steve's teeth buzz in his head and wraps a chill around his heart.

_The first sign._

Ever since the Incident, his dreams - both shared and personal - had been marked by three recurring signs: the train, the ice, and the Shade. Augurs of danger, warnings that his troubled psyche had started to seep into his surroundings...

The first two signs had always caused significant inconvenience to his teammates, but with quick thinking and teamwork, they were manageable for the most part.

It’s the third sign that fills him with with gut-churning dread. The apprehension that prickles under his skin every time he closes his eyes to sleep, wondering if this time, _this dream,_ will be the one that the Shade pulls him under forever.

The noise dies away abruptly, leaving a ringing silence in its wake. The pause lingers, one second, two seconds, three…

A distant explosion tears shatters the stillness, the sound of something heavy slamming through concrete and glass.

“That sounded ominous,” Tony tilts his head to the side. “Is it just me or was that a train horn?”

“It's a sign we need to move. Come on!” Steve makes sure Tony’s in front of him and they dash through the doors.

The closer they get, the more the temperature starts to fall. Shards of glass and ice crunch under their feet, making for a sharp landing if they're unlucky enough to slip.

They turn the final corner to find the access point a complete wreck.

The scene is uncanny, like something out of a movie; the front carriage of a freight train is blocking the entire corridor as if a giant had picked it up and rammed it through the building. The impact had destroyed all of the light fixtures, leaving the hallway lit by flashes of red emergency lighting.

Their path to the bridge is blocked.

Steve draws his shield, not liking the atmosphere of the hallway. Something’s coming, and he has to be ready.

“Are you kidding me?” Panting from the run, Tony’s breath puffs out in clouds as he gazes transfixed at the train. As before, the carriage is covered by a sheen of frost - so cold that it could sear all the feeling out of human skin.

Drawing closer, Tony reaches his un-gauntleted hand towards the carriage, and the sight sends Steve into high alert.

“Don't touch it,” Steve grabs Tony's hand and pulls him away. The idea of those talented hands frostbitten and useless makes his heart thump all the quicker. “It’ll freeze your hands off if you do.”

In the chilliness of the hallway, Tony’s hand feels very warm in his, those long, calloused fingers twitching slightly against his palm. Tony stares at him with an unreadable expression, breaths still coming hard from the exertion of the run, and then his eyes slide down to where their hands are joined.

Steve belatedly wonders if he's made another blunder, but Tony isn't castigating him over invasion of personal space or making any move to shove him away.

Tony opens his mouth to say something, but his gaze catches on something behind Steve and his eyes fill with shock.

“Steve, behind you!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. I pictured this level of the dream taking place in the Berlin office in CACW
> 
> 2\. According to my google research, it's 100% possible to pick handcuffs with a pen. Apparently you have to break it open and use the thingy inside to lift the lock.
> 
> 3\. I'm hugely relieved that IW didn't introduce too much new canon, which means I can carry on with my original plans for this fic. The movie even gave me some new ideas that I'm going to weave in the later chapters - I had no idea that my 'people disintegrating into nothing' plot point would turn out to be relevant in IW too xD
> 
> 4\. It took me almost 30k words, but look they're finally holding hands!


End file.
